You'll Be In My Heart
by xerxia31
Summary: Post-war, Katniss and Peeta learn to live and love again. Post-Mockingjay. Alternating POV. Canon compliant. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_You'll be in my heart_  
><em>No matter what they say<em>  
><em>You'll be here in my heart<em>  
><em>Always.<em>

* * *

><p>I've been home three weeks; inasmuch as you can call this barren, burned out wasteland my home. Almost nothing remains of 'home', my family's bakery is gone, the little loft above it where I took my first steps, where I wrestled with my brothers, where I grew and dreamed, gone, my family too is gone. My school, my friends, my town: all gone. Victor's Village remains however; the house given to me after the Games, and eleven others just like it, stand sentinel, overlooking the ash and dust and destruction.<p>

_When I returned three weeks ago the train that brought me away from the Capitol pulled into the station before dawn, and I was spared confronting the depth and breadth of the destruction, at least temporarily, as I trudged from the station up the hill to Victor's Village in the moonlight. Though no one was there to meet me at the station, I found my house had been cleaned, a fire laid and the kitchen stocked with enough food and basics to get me through the first few weeks of homecoming. I hadn't told anyone I was returning (because, really, who was there to tell?) but someone knew anyway, and that small bit of welcome, that warm fire and pantry full of flour and sugar, made me weak with gratitude._

_When I returned three weeks ago and felt that gratitude, that reminder that I wasn't alone, I walked with purpose into the wooded area beyond my yard to find the primrose bushes I remembered blooming the previous spring, digging them up and carefully nestling them into a wheelbarrow, then planting them along the side of her house._

_When I returned three weeks ago I saw her for the first time in many months. Saw her wide, frightened eyes, matted hair, dirty clothes, and hollow cheeks. She was tiny, feral, more wraith than girl. She hardly looked like the person who I'd spent so many hours, days, months watching on tapes, trying to piece together what was real and what was not real. Katniss._

_She was so beautiful._

_She __**is**__ so beautiful._

As the days and weeks pass I try to establish a routine; this is what the Capitol doctors who treated me emphasize is important to my recovery. Each day I rise before the dawn to bake, bread most mornings, sometimes rolls or pastries too. I bring some to Katniss, and Greasy Sae makes breakfast for both of us, eggs or hot grain, simple hearty food. I try occasionally to make small talk with Sae or with Katniss, but mostly we eat in silence, or rather I eat in silence. Katniss alternates between picking at her food, feeding her meal to the cat or simply staring off into space and leaving her plate untouched. This morning is a staring off into space day, the third in a row. Greasy Sae's brow is furrowed as I finish, and she stays behind after I leave. I wonder if she's hoping to cajole Katniss into eating when I'm not there. I hope so.

After breakfast I find ways to occupy my time. Some days I paint, some days I clean, some days I plan for the garden I'm hoping to plant now that spring is coming. Most days I bring Haymitch bread or something else I've baked, though he's seldom conscious when I do. Some days I walk; I haven't yet ventured to what used to be the town centre though. I have to work my way up to that, and mentally I'm not strong enough yet. Once a week I walk to the train station, to pick up my weekly Capitol delivery.

Today is a Capitol delivery day. The station is busy, several hundred people have returned to District 12 already and more arrive almost every week. My delivery is large today, two good-sized boxes and a couple of envelopes. I wish I'd thought to bring my wheelbarrow to carry it all, but I'll have to manage. Tucking the envelopes into my jacket and stacking the boxes one on top of the other, I'm just starting down the platform when I hear an unfamiliar voice calling my name. When I turn, a man with the distinctive dark hair and olive skin of the Seam is striding towards me pushing a cart loaded with boxes. He looks vaguely familiar but I don't think I know him.

"Peeta," he greets me, setting down the cart and extending a hand to me, which I shake firmly, my boxes balanced precariously on my hip. "Don't think we've been properly introduced," he continues. "The name's Thom, I used to work with Gale Hawthorne, before…" he trails off. He doesn't need to specify before what. We all know; the lives of everyone in the district are divided into before the firebombing, and after. Well, everyone except Haymitch, Katniss and me, our 'divisions' are a little different. Thom clears his throat, "Anyway, I'm bringin' Haymitch's and Miss Katniss's deliveries up for them. Would you like to drop your packages on the cart too?"

I smile at him in gratitude. "Thanks Thom, I really appreciate that, I was a little worried about getting them up the hill, I didn't realize I'd ordered so much this week." Thom helps me settle the boxes into the cart, and then we walk away from the station together. Along the way we converse, he's friendly and interesting, and obviously a keen observer with plenty of stories and gossip. He tells me about the reconstruction, which he's coordinating, and we chat about the people who have returned to the district, the people who remain in District 13, and the people we've lost. I realize that Thom was in the same class at school as my eldest brother, and though they weren't friends they knew each other from sports teams.

"Really sorry about your brother Peeta, about all of your family, wasn't right what the Capitol did to us." he says softly. I nod but can't speak, I miss my family every single day but the guilt over what happened makes it difficult to talk about them. Thom seems to understand, and after a pause he continues speaking about other things going on in the district.

When we reach the gates to Victor's Village he immediately steers the cart towards my house, without me having to tell him which one it is. _No_, I think wryly, _everyone already knows where we live_. Thom sets my boxes on the porch, and then reaches for my hand again. "Real pleasure finally speakin' with you Peeta," he says with a firm shake. "Hope I'll see you 'round."

"Count on it Thom," I reply with a smile, "And thank you!" He turns and manoeuvres the cart across the street towards Haymitch's house. I carry the boxes into my kitchen, then come back to look out the front window, in time to see Thom handing off a huge bundle of envelopes to Greasy Sae as she stands on Katniss's porch, before he disappears into her house carrying a box. He's back out and steering the cart towards the gates before even a minute has passed. It's then that I realize why he looks so familiar; I've seen him exiting Katniss's house once before, the day that I returned to District 12.

_My heart had nearly stopped for a moment that day, seeing him leaving her house, that dark hair and olive skin looking far too much like someone else's. It had taken a few moments to register that he was much shorter and stockier than Gale, but those few moments had opened up a well of anxiety and doubt that had left me fighting flashbacks the rest of that day._

Not wanting to revisit that, I shake my head and return to the kitchen to begin unpacking my order. One box is filled with new paints, canvasses and sketchbooks, cleaning solutions and brushes, and I have to resist the urge to clap like a small child. I may eventually become accustomed to being able to afford good art supplies, but it hasn't happened yet.

The second box contains food and sundries: salt, sugar, flour, a tiny glass bottle of vanilla extract, bags of raisins and nuts, bars of baking chocolate, paper goods, and seed packets. At the bottom is something I don't remember ordering: a brick of cheese. Unlike the soft unripened cheese that is common in District 12, this is firm, aged cheese from District 10, orange and strong-smelling. My father used to order cheese like this from the Capitol for only one reason.

Cheese buns.

I find myself clutching the back of a chair tightly as I'm flooded with memories: my father showing me how to bake cheese buns, watching him trade them for squirrels at the back door of the bakery, making them for Katniss when she hurt her foot. Memories of those couple of weeks where I spent every day with her, working on her family's plant book. Dozens of memories sort themselves out in my mind, and not a single one shiny. I'm trembling, but elated; who knew a simple brick of cheese could open the floodgates of my memories?

* * *

><p>I'm awake even earlier than usual and I head straight for my kitchen. My hands mix and measure and knead almost of their own volition. When I exit my house and head across the green it's with a bounce in my step and a basket of warm buns tucked under my arm. I enter through the back door of Katniss's house, it leads directly into the kitchen, where Greasy Sae is frying eggs and Katniss sits at the table, staring vacantly at the wall.<p>

"Good morning, Sae. Good morning Katniss," I try. Sae nods, but Katniss makes no sign that she's even heard me. I set the basket down in the middle of the table, then unwrap the cloth that covers the buns. Katniss's eyes shift to the basket and widen. She looks up, making eye contact with me for the first time in weeks. Her expressive silver eyes look surprised and, I think, pleased.

"Cheese buns?" she questions, her voice a soft rasp. I smile, and nod.

"They're your favourite, real or not real?"

"Real," Katniss gifts me with a smile, a real smile, the first I've seen from her since the Quell. My heart skips a beat. She pulls one from the basket, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply. "Mmmmm," she half moans, half purrs. I feel my cheeks go pink, and I look away quickly.

Breakfast is still a quiet event but Katniss is definitely mentally present today, and she eats four cheese buns plus the eggs Greasy Sae prepares. When she finishes, she stands up and announces "I think I'll go hunting today," then heads for the front hall. I clear her plate and my own, and as I do so she walks back through the kitchen wearing her father's hunting jacket with her bow slung over her shoulder. She grabs one more cheese bun from the basket before heading out the back door, a spring in her step. Sae and I both watch, silently, mouths identically agape.

As I make to leave myself, Sae grabs my arm. "Thank you dear boy," she says, her eyes shining, as she reaches up to cup the back of my head with her hand, a gesture so maternal that it makes my heart pang. I swallow hard and nod, not trusting my voice. She draws me into a quick hug, then releases me and turns to the sink, looking lighter than she has in days.


	2. Chapter 2

I think it's getting easier. There are still lost days, still days when Greasy Sae has to drag me out of bed and down to the kitchen, but once I'm there I'll usually eat without being fed now. Most mornings I go out to my woods after breakfast. It's not the best time to hunt, I'd have much better luck at sunrise and sunset, but it's fine for checking the snare lines and gathering the greens that are popping up everywhere now. And I do shoot, a little anyway. Squirrels and rabbits mostly. It's taken a couple of weeks to be able to get them through the eye, like before, but my arm strength and my steadiness are returning bit by bit. I still struggle with endurance but since I'm never in a hurry anymore I let myself rest as often as I wish. Sometimes I even nap out here, cradled on a bed of pine needles and moss, dappled sunshine soothing me.

I cry out here too; in the solitude of my woods I feel my losses more acutely. Every medicinal herb I discover is another opportunity to reflect on the people who no longer need me to gather them. Every animal and bird I catch reminds me of the people who I no longer help support with my hunting, of the people I can no longer trade with because they too are gone.

I often think of Gale out here, how can I not when these woods have been ours, together, since I was 12? Every tree, every path, every berry patch and stream, all of them I shared with Gale. I miss the Gale I used to know, the one who could make me smile and even sometimes laugh, the one who made hunting easier and more fun, the one who really knew me, who I could speak with about almost anything. That Gale is gone, and he's never coming back, one more person that the Capitol stole from me. Now there is only the heartless man who blew up miners and built bombs that killed my sister, who took away from me the only person I was ever sure I loved. And that Gale isn't coming back either. I was relieved to find out that Gale is in District Two, but it doesn't extinguish the pain of his abandonment, not really.

Without thinking about it, I've ventured to our meeting spot. The blackberry brambles that surround it are covered in white flowers now, I should gather some, and some leaves, to make tea, but instead I curl up in our nook, which is much too big without him beside me, and let the loneliness wash over me.

I cry for a while, feel sorry for myself, and wonder, again, why I continue to live, why my heart continues to beat when so many others who were far more deserving don't have that luxury. The sun moves across the sky and small animals skitter by, near enough to almost reach out and grab them, but I remain still and silent. If I make myself small enough maybe I'll just fade away.

Out of nowhere, Greasy Sae's face swims in front of my eyes, and I feel guilty. I can't fade away, not after she's invested so much effort into keeping me alive these past few months. I suspect she's being paid to look after me, but the gentleness and kindness with which she treats me is all her own. She's been looking out for me in small ways since my father died. Maybe even before. Sae lost everything in the firebombing except for a single granddaughter, but I haven't heard a word of complaint from her. She lives in one of the big houses of Victor's Village now, looking out over the burned out shell of what was once her home and her livelihood. I've heard her chatting with Peeta about reopening her stall now that there is a rudimentary marketplace in town. She has hope, she believes in the future. For her I push myself through the motions of living.

And if I'm being honest, it's not just for Sae. It was Peeta returning that drew me out of the endless blackness that had consumed me since I was shipped back to District 12. Peeta coming to breakfast, baking me bread, remembering the cheese buns that I love. He seems like the Peeta of old: friendly, encouraging, kind. He shows up every morning without fail, bearing warm baked goods and an even warmer smile. I long to talk to him, really talk, but I'm afraid of opening old wounds. Still he shows up, in spite of my reticence and seeming indifference. He has a kind smile even when I can't make myself look up from my plate. I've missed him, really missed him, that steadiness and dependability. I'd thought it was gone forever but here he is. And that's the crux of it maybe, he was gone once, I'm terrified that if I let myself accept him he'll be gone again. What holds Peeta to District 12 anyway? He could be anywhere, everyone loves Peeta, he's sweet and funny, and when he speaks people listen. He's attractive too; I'd have to be blind not to notice. I watch him some mornings, when he's distracted talking to Greasy Sae. His blond curls are overlong now, and sometimes my fingers itch to bury themselves in his hair, to tug gently, to brush the silky waves off his brow. I'm still fascinated by his long golden lashes too, and those stunning blue eyes. He's regained a lot of the muscle he lost in the arena and during his captivity, and grown taller too. His shoulders are broad and his arms are strong and muscled, and those hands, those big hands and long fingers, the hands of an artist. I remember how his hands felt wrapped around mine, our fingers entwined, how steady and safe those hands are.

When they're not strangling me.

But I have to push that thought aside, that wasn't Peeta, that was the Capitol's creation. That's not the boy who brings me bread and smiles. They wouldn't have sent him back if he was any danger to me, I think. Certainly I haven't seen any evidence that mutt Peeta still exists. It's another thing I wish I could ask him, what they did to cure him, whether he's gotten back all that they stole. No, I know the answer to that anyway; he'll never get back everything they took from him, just like I won't. I think of the question he asked me on the train home from the first games: how much will be left? The answer is just as murky now as it was then.

I pick myself up and dust myself off, I've been out here for hours now and I really shouldn't go back empty handed.

My snares have caught only a couple of squirrels, still, Greasy Sae can turn those into a hearty stew I know. She can turn just about anything into a good meal, she's always been able to do that, it's just one of the many things I admire about her.

Striding back into Victor's Village I decide to drop in on Haymitch. Even though he continues to be ornery and drunk I try to check in on him from time to time. When I'm not lost to myself anyway. We will probably never really get along, but he's like family to me now, especially since my own family is gone. I have so few people left in my life.

I enter through the back door, the one that leads to his kitchen. It's not locked, and I don't bother knocking. It's not like he'd answer anyway. Today he's sitting at his kitchen table, sipping amber coloured liquid from a glass and eating slices of bread that could only have come from Peeta. His kitchen is fetid, the stench of dirty dishes and rotting food almost overwhelming. Still, it's the cleanest room of the house. Haymitch has fallen back into squalor since we returned to District 12. I resolve to ask Thom if there's someone in town I could hire to clean up in here. I have my doubts though, Hazelle might have been the only person with a strong enough stomach to deal with the cesspool that is Haymitch.

He glances up from his bread as I enter. "Well look what the cat dragged in! Hello Sweetheart," he slurs, I'm guessing the amber liquid is some sort of alcohol. I drop into a chair across from him wordlessly. He gestured towards his bread, "Boy's back."

I roll my eyes at him, "He's been back for a month Haymitch and you're just noticing now?" He shrugs.

"I noticed the bread, but I haven't seen him. I just wake up and here it is, waiting on my table. Like magic."

I snort, "Some magic. He's been baking for you for a month and you haven't even said thanks?"

The look he gives me is sardonic. "Yeah, because I'm the only one who hasn't thanked him for a couple of loaves of bread." I feel the heat rising in my face and my ears burn, but I have no comeback for that because, of course, he's right. I choose instead to glare at him. That simply makes him chuckle.

"Yeah well…"

We sit in silence for a while; we've never really needed words, either of us. He finally speaks again, more gently than typical. "You're looking a lot better Sweetheart. Sae says you're eating better too." I want to be offended that Sae is reporting to him, but I'm not, Haymitch is, after all, my legal guardian, as strange as that is. I can't even be angry about it anymore. So I simply shrug. "Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain baker boy now would it?"

I scowl at him, "Shut up, Haymitch." He chuckles again, but says nothing else, finishing his glass of amber and attacking another slice of bread.

"Sae says he looks good, back to normal." He's fishing, but I don't bite. Finally he sighs and simply asks "Are you okay with him being back Sweetheart?"

I study his grey eyes, looking in them for any reason why I shouldn't be okay, but they're inscrutable. I shrug, "I guess." He nods, but his brows knit together. "What?" I ask defensively.

"Are you afraid of him?" The question surprises me, I know what he means, after the attacks in 13 and in the Capitol, but I assumed that the doctors wouldn't have let him come to District 12 if it would endanger me. I mean, I don't have any other choice of where to be, while he could go anywhere.

"Should I be?" I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice wavers a little at the end, betraying me. Do I need to be afraid of Peeta? I still have nightmares of the day he tried to strangle me, but it's not his hands around my throat that make me wake up screaming in terror, it's his eyes, icy and full of loathing. Those eyes that could see all of the evil and blackness in me. I shudder inwardly.

"No." Haymitch says with such finality that I'm forced to look up at him again. "I've been speaking with Dr. Aurelius pretty regularly; he's kept me up to date about Peeta's progress. Peeta will probably never be cured, you understand that right?" I have nothing to say to that, as much as I hoped that they'd be able to undo what they did to Peeta I think I've always known it was an impossibility. Haymitch continues, "He's the only person who has ever survived being hijacked, his recovery is so much more than any of us could have hoped for. He's no longer violent and for the most part he's not confused, though there are some gaps in his head."

"He seems fine to me." I'm not even sure if this is true, I mean, Peeta's not screaming that I'm a mutt, and his smiles seem genuine enough, but I see him for all of 40 minutes a day and I haven't spoken more than a dozen words to him since the day he planted the primroses.

Haymitch is quiet for a long time, as if he's deciding whether to continue. "Katniss," his use of my real name startles me, makes me pay closer attention, "Do you know why Peeta came back here?"

"This is his home."

Haymitch smirks, "His home burned down Sweetheart, his family is dead, what does he have in District 12?"

I know what he wants me to say. "He has us," I whisper. Haymitch snorts.

"He has us does he Sweetheart? I'm asleep when he comes by, and you barely acknowledge him over breakfast." I bristle at this.

"What the hell do you know, Haymitch? You don't know anything at all about me or Peeta! You haven't even spoken to him once since he got back, and you've never come to see me! If I didn't come by from time to time you'd forget what I even looked like!" I'm so angry that he's lecturing me about Peeta, for months he never so much as stuck his head in my back door but he's concerned that I'm not paying enough attention to Peeta? It always comes back to this; I'm never going to be good enough for Peeta and Haymitch is going to make sure that I know it.

"I have other ways of keeping tabs on you, Sweetheart, I don't need to look at you." He practically sneers and I wonder, not for the first time, just how many glasses of that amber alcohol he's had. I deflate; I don't have it in me to fight with Haymitch today. Or maybe ever.

"Fine," I say, "What are you getting at Haymitch, cut to the chase."

"He came back for you, Sweetheart. Kid still loves you." His words twist in my stomach, make my chest flutter uncomfortably.

"No." I state emphatically, "No he doesn't. That's gone Haymitch, the Capitol saw to that." He quirks an eyebrow at me and drags his eyes to the heel of bread still sitting on his table. I follow his gaze and understand what he's hinting at. "No," I say again, "That's just Peeta being Peeta, being good and kind and giving…" I sniff a little, remembering. Even when he was so angry with me, before the Victory Tour, even then there were baked goods wrapped in paper left on my porch. Even then he wouldn't abandon me completely.

"You're still completely oblivious. Or are you just pining for Tall, Dark and Absent?" His tone is contemptuous. I pick up his empty glass tumbler and throw it at his head. He's lucky that my aim is still off; it hits the wall behind him and shatters. He doesn't even flinch. I refuse to talk about Gale, our friendship is over, and there was really no chance of us ever having had more than that anyway. I push back my chair and make for the door.

"Katniss." I stop, but don't turn around. "What did we go through all of this for? Don't throw your life away because you're too afraid to live it."

"It's not living I'm afraid of." I say to the door. "They're all gone Haymitch. I can't lose anyone else." I can hear him shuffling behind me, opening a cupboard door. Probably looking for another clean glass. Good luck with that, Haymitch.

"He'll wait forever, you know that, but it wouldn't be fair to either of you. You both deserve happiness." His voice is tinged with melancholy, and maybe regret. I still don't turn back. I can hear liquid sloshing; I guess he found something clean enough. The booze will probably kill anything growing on his dirty dishes anyway.

I chew on my lip, staring out his back door for what feels like a long time before finally I admit, "I'm glad he's back." There's so much more that I should say but I don't have the words. I never have the words. But Haymitch doesn't need words to understand me. So I leave his house without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

I've spent the morning and most of the afternoon in what will be my garden, turning the soil and laying out rows. It's warm for April, but I know it's too soon to begin planting, there will be another hard frost yet I'm sure. I want to be sure that everything is ready, I think I can start planting in another couple of weeks. The garden will be large, but I welcome the challenge, it'll keep me busy and provide me, and my neighbours, with fresh vegetables all summer long. Well, I hope it will. I have exactly zero experience gardening after all.

As I stand to head into the house and clean up I see her, striding through the gates of the village. At first I think she's heading to her house, but she shifts her path and walks directly towards me. She's flushed and wisps of hair that have escaped from her short braid fly around her face in the breeze. "Hi," I say with a smile, wiping my hands on my pants. She smiles shyly and extends something to me, wrapped in cloth.

"Morels," she says as I open the cloth and peer in at the fragrant mushrooms. "For you."

"Thank you," I smile widely at her. She looks away, shifting from foot to foot, like she wants to say something but can't find the words. I simply wait, observing her as I do. The game bag slung over her shoulder is full and her eyes are bright and clear. Her cheeks are still hollow, and the circles under her eyes suggest exhaustion, but she looks better every day.

"I found fiddleheads too," she finally says, "And, uh," she takes a deep breath. "And would you like to come for dinner? Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" It comes out in a rush, and I freeze, not entirely certain I've heard her right. As the words sink in a smile spreads across my face.

"I would love to," I sound like an eager little kid, but I can't help myself. She raises her head and flashes me a brief, shy smile.

"Great, come by around six then, okay?" She's turned and is walking briskly back across the green before I can even reply. I watch her in wonder. Katniss Everdeen just asked me to dinner.

* * *

><p>I bake tarts, studded with raisins and nuts, to bring for dessert. I've showered and am dressed with an hour to spare, and have begun pacing the living room. I'm incredibly nervous, though I shouldn't be nervous, we have shared breakfast together every morning, this isn't any different. <em>It's completely different, she invited you this time<em>, I think. This is true; we sort of fell into our joint breakfasts after Greasy Sae asked me to stay that first morning, and then asked me to return the next. I've never even asked Katniss if she minded me being there. _It's Katniss, if she minded you wouldn't be there. _ That too is true, she's damaged and hurting, but she's still Katniss, and I've seen sparks of that indomitable will I know if still smouldering beneath the surface. _If you don't calm down you're going to push yourself into an episode_. I sigh, this is also true, stress and exhaustion make it harder to fight off the shiny memories, and the last thing I want to do is lose it around Katniss. I haven't had a violent episode in a long, long time, not since the incident with Mitchell, but even with the milder flashbacks I'm not completely convinced that it'd be safe for Katniss to be around me when I have one.

I decide to draw to calm myself down, and sit in the kitchen with sketchbook and pencils bringing to life on the page the delicate honeycomb texture of the morels Katniss brought for me. By the time 6 o'clock rolls around I've calmed considerably.

Greasy Sae lets me in; Katniss is laying out plates of food. Two plates. **Only** two plates. Sae waves and calls out a good bye, and I'm left standing in the kitchen with Katniss, just the two of us. I can hardly breathe. "She needed to get back to Lila," Katniss offers by way of explanation. Lila is Greasy Sae's orphaned granddaughter, a simple little girl who sometimes tags along for breakfast. Sae and Lila are the only two in their family who survived the firebombing, they live now in one of the Victor's Village houses, beside the gates that head to town. A revolving group of returnees and new immigrants from Thirteen stay with Sae when they arrive to build (or rebuild) their homes, she seems to flourish caring for them just as she does caring for Katniss. And, well, caring for me too I guess.

Katniss gestures for me to take my chair, and then sits across from me, much like we do every morning. My nerves are forgotten when I see my plate, suddenly I'm ravenous. Rabbit, rolled in breadcrumbs and cooked up crispy, fiddleheads and morels fried in oil and flecked with pepper. Everything tastes delicious. Even Katniss eats well.

"This is the best meal I've had in months! Thank you Katniss," I exclaim.

"I caught the rabbit this morning, two of them in fact," she smiles. "Sae cooked it, and the greens too."

"It's wonderful, I haven't had any fresh meat since I came back." I'm reluctant to admit this but it slips out before I can stop it.

Her brow furrows. "You haven't?"

Shaking my head I explain, "Fresh meat doesn't come in the Capitol deliveries. There were some canned goods in my pantry, but mostly I've been eating bread and cheese." Thinking about Sae's breakfasts I add, "And eggs."

"But Rooba is back in business, she has a stall in the new marketplace. I bring her game sometimes, and she gets beef and even chicken from District 10 as well," Katniss says, her eyes registering confusion. I look down, as if suddenly interested in the table.

"I, uh, I haven't been to the marketplace yet." I clear my throat, "Actually, I haven't been to town at all yet. I, uh, I'm not really ready. To - to face it." My cheeks are flushed with embarrassment; I feel weak and cowardly admitting this.

Silence fills the kitchen until finally Katniss speaks so softly I almost miss it. "I'll go with you, if you want. When you're ready I mean." I look up; her eyes are full of understanding. "It was really hard for me to see the town and the Seam at first too. Still is. Thom and the others have cleared away the worst of it now at least. But it's hard."

I'm flooded with gratitude. "Thank you," I say quietly, "I think I'd like that."

"Anyway," she continues after a pause, "We can share what I hunt and gather." I shake my head, I can't take food from her mouth, but she only waves me off, "It's only fair, you've been feeding me too. And Haymitch, I don't think he'd eat at all if you didn't keep bringing him bread." I smirk, apart from the odd grunt Haymitch has made no recognition of my presence, but at least he's eating what I bring him. When he's conscious.

"I haven't even spoken to Haymitch," I admit. "He's never awake when I'm there."

She nods, "He still sleeps in the mornings, but he has a few useful hours in the late afternoon before he gets too drunk again, sometimes anyway. Nothing's really changed for him."

I sigh, "I feel like I should know that." I murmur. I don't really want to bring up the gaps in my memory, not just yet, but her expression demands that I elaborate. Taking a deep breath I begin, "The doctors in the Capitol worked wonders, but there are still things I don't remember. Being home helps though, so much has come back since I got here." I try to put as positive a spin on it as I can, but I know there are memories that I'll never get back. She looks at me sadly.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she queries. I unintentionally suck in a sharp breath. So many of the memories that I can't make sense of, the ones that I can't sort into real or not real, involve her, but I didn't think I'd ever be able to work up the courage to ask for her help. Now she's offering.

I nod, probably a bit too eagerly. "The… the game we played, 'Real or Not Real', that was incredibly helpful, and Dr Aurelius continued that as part of my therapy while I was hospitalized in the Capitol. When people came to visit me, Delly and Haymitch and Johanna, even Effie once, I'd play that with them, and it helped me to sort out so many things. But there is so much that none of them knew. And… and most of the memories that the Capitol tampered with..." I bite my bottom lip hard to stop myself from going any further, from scaring her off entirely. But she simply nods once and smiles, just faintly.

"Okay."

"Okay?" I'm confused.

"Okay, you can ask me, and I'll tell you, anything I can anyway." She looks determined; that spark is there in her eyes again. It makes me grin, but I'm not quite ready to delve into the confusion of my mind right now, not when I'm enjoying this uncomplicated time together, just her and me. I try a diversionary tactic.

"Well, maybe not right this minute, there are still tarts to eat after all!" I know Katniss has a sweet tooth. She laughs at this, and while I pull out the plate of tarts she makes us tea, and leaves mine unsweetened. I smile inwardly; she told me that's how I take my tea even before I remembered it myself. It's those little things that remind me she's not a mutt, she's a sweet girl, and somewhere deep inside she cares for me. I cling to that knowledge.

Somehow we end up in her living room, sitting on the floor like children, sipping tea and eating tarts, chatting about safe topics, the plants she's hoping to find now that spring is here, the garden I'm planting, Plutarch's ridiculous singing show. All too soon it's dark, the fire is dying down and Katniss is trying to stifle a yawn.

"It's late and you're tired, I should go," I say, reluctantly. She looks a little sad as I say it, but doesn't argue. "Can we…" I hesitate, not wanting to push my luck.

"Do this again?" she finishes. I nod, and she smiles softly. "I'd like that Peeta." It's the first time she's said my name since I returned, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

I rise to leave, stretching out my bad leg and offering Katniss a hand up, which she takes. Her little hand fits in mine perfectly, as it always has. As if our hands are made for each other. She walks me to the door. "Peeta?" she says as I step out onto the porch. I turn to her and she bites her bottom lip, like she's trying to force herself to say more. Finally she squeaks "Thanks for today," then she closes the door quickly. I smile to myself and head home.


	4. Chapter 4

Peeta has come for dinner the past few days and already it feels like a routine. Greasy Sae cooks, then leaves. Peeta and I do the dishes together, and then we sit in my living room. A couple of days ago we started to talk a little about the past, playing 'Real or Not Real' to help sort out some of his memories, but all of his questions were gentle, non-confrontational, sticking to safe topics. The kind of questions that I sense he's already pretty sure of the answers to. Testing the waters, as my father would say. Or maybe testing me, seeing if I'm trustworthy, seeing if I'll actually help.

Tonight I sense things will be different.

Peeta is considerably more nervous tonight, agitated even. Dinner is strained; I'm not good at small talk and tonight he doesn't even try. I wonder idly if he has had a bad day, or a bad night, but I can't make myself ask. While his eyes are downcast, concentrating on his plate of early greens and duck I let myself really observe him. He is regaining the muscle he lost to the Games and torture; digging in his garden and working with the large bags of flour he gets on the Capitol delivery trains have broadened his shoulders and strengthened his arms. The burn scars that travel up his neck and down his left arm are fading, they look much better than my own. He probably takes better care of them. Objectively he's even more handsome now than he was when he stood beside me on Reaping Day almost 2 years ago; his jaw is more defined and dotted with pale stubble that catches the light, his face has lost the softness of youth, he looks like a man now, which I guess he is. Today though, the circles under his eyes are dark and pronounced, making his eyes look sunken and sad. I wonder if he sleeps at all.

I wash the dishes and he dries, still silent but for the clink of plates and an occasional murmured thank you or that goes there. When we finish I turn to him, intending to ask if perhaps he's too tired to talk tonight, but he's already made his way into the living room. I follow and find he's settled into one of the armchairs, not on the couch where I can sit beside him, or on the floor where we've ended up together before. It feels more formal this way, like there is a barrier between us. I don't think it's a coincidence. I sink onto the couch and he makes eye contact with me for the first time. It does nothing to alleviate my unsettled feeling. His expression is wary, but determined, and I feel like I've disappointed him already though we've yet to say a word. If I was a better person I would think of something to say to ease the tension, to make him feel more comfortable and safe, but I have no words, so I sit silently watching him. He jumps in with no preamble.

"There was no baby, real or not real?" My heart breaks a little at this. If he's not sure about the fake baby then he must wonder if we've done things he can't remember, like he alluded to when we were in Thirteen.

"Real," I answer firmly. "You made up the story about the baby to protect me. And maybe to make the Capitol citizens feel bad about us all being in the arena again." Though we have never discussed his motivations I feel certain he was at least partially feeding off the dissent that the other Victors had started in their interviews.

"I wanted there to be a baby." His eyebrows are raised, but it doesn't feel like he's asking a question. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. "I was crying."

I nod, "You cried after, while we were all standing on stage together. I think…" I hesitate, this is tough already and we're only two questions in, but I promised that I would help him sort it out and these are the things that only I can help him with. I take a deep breath and continue, "I think you were crying because you believed that was a future you'd never have. A wife and a baby. A family of your own. We both… we both went into the Quell expecting to die." There is so much more that I can't add, that I don't have the words or the will to share.

"We weren't really married. Haymitch told me that much." There is a hesitation in his voice, like he's not completely convinced. I just shake my head. "But we were engaged," he continues.

"Yes, we got engaged during the Victory Tour. Snow wanted us to have a big Capitol wedding. Cinna designed a bunch of dresses for the people to vote on."

"You didn't want to be engaged." Flat, not a question. I shrug.

"I didn't want to be forced to be engaged," I say diplomatically.

"You didn't want to be engaged to me." There's an odd edge to his voice now and it's making me uncomfortable. I try to push down the anger that threatens to bubble up, _he just needs clarity_ I remind myself, _and you promised you'd help_.

"It wasn't you," I fumble, trying to find the right words to make him understand, "I never wanted to get married to anyone, ever. In the districts, that was pretty much the only choice we got to make for ourselves, without the Capitol weighing in: who to marry or to not marry at all. And they were taking that choice away from us."

The look he gives me is so cold it's physically painful. "It was your idea, getting engaged. I remember that. I didn't want it."

I remember that too, the desperation, trying to do anything to convince Snow of that I was in love with Peeta, trying to quell an uprising in the districts that we had no power to stop, trying to keep our families safe. I remember the look on Peeta's face when I suggested it, the way he agreed but then locked himself into his room for the rest of the day. I didn't understand then, but I do now and the guilt is overwhelming. I have to choke back a sob before I can continue, "The public proposal was my idea, yes, but we would have had to have gotten engaged, and married, eventually. It was expected. They wouldn't have let the Star-Crossed Lovers live anonymously."

"What would have happened if we'd gotten married Katniss?" Peeta's voice is raised, his hands clenched into fists.

"What?" This is not in the realm of real or not real.

"Would you have gone through with it?"

"Yes," I answer immediately.

"You were going to run away." He pauses, and his brow furrows. "Real or not real?"

"We talked about it," I answer, a little evasively. "I – I asked you to. For all of us to run I mean. But you didn't think I'd go through with it. And you were right."

"Because you couldn't convince him." By him he means Gale, and I am not going to talk about Gale. I don't want to think about Gale, because thinking about Gale means thinking about _her_ and I can't think about her right now. Or maybe ever. My silence has stretched on too long and Peeta looks agitated. "So what would have happened? You'd have married me; played it all for the cameras, then run off every night with someone else?"

"No," I interject, but he is frenzied, not listening to me now.

"We'd have hardly acknowledged each other behind closed doors but put on a show every time the cameras were out? Maybe even some make-believe married scenes for Snow to listen to with the bugs in the house?"

"Stop it!" I'm yelling now too, my face is burning with humiliation.

"And all the while you can barely tolerate me."

"You know that's not true!"

"Do I? You couldn't stand me before. Five months you didn't even talk to me!" He means after our first games I think, and while it's true that we didn't talk that wasn't entirely my fault.

"You didn't talk to me either!" I yell, giving up any pretense of staying calm. "I told you I was scared and confused and you avoided me, you wouldn't let me work through what happened with you or even give me a chance to explain what I was thinking or feeling, you just took off as if nothing had ever happened! And I was devastated! I missed you before we even got off that damned train!"

"You had a funny way of showing it, traipsing off in the woods, rubbing my face in the fact that it was all an act!"

"It wasn't like that!"

"Then tell me how it was! Explain it to me!"

"I… I… I can't..." I'm so confused; I don't know how to explain to Peeta what my motivations were then when I don't even know myself. How can I tell him that my every thought was about keeping Prim safe, keeping Peeta safe, Gale safe, our families safe, how can I defend myself when I failed, I failed every one of them, they're all dead or gone or irreparably damaged.

Peeta is pacing now, yelling maybe, I can see his mouth moving but I can't understand the words. His fists shake but all I can do is pull my knees up to my chest and drop my head onto them, wrapping my arms around my head, trying to shut out the litany only I can hear_: it's your fault, you killed them all, they're all dead and it's your fault. It should have been you. You don't deserve to live_. "No, no, no…" I moan but the voices don't stop, they get louder, more insistent_, you're worthless, you don't deserve to live, you stole Prim's life, she should be here, you should be dead_.

Distantly I hear my door slam as Peeta leaves.

The night brings its own horrors. I drift asleep, only to be awakened repeatedly by my screams as I watch everyone I love die over and over again. When the sun rises Greasy Sae finds me still curled up tightly in a ball, lying on my couch. She bends down to stroke my hair.

"Come eat child, there are some muffins in the kitchen." I glance towards the kitchen, then look up at her questioningly and she understands what I'm asking without me saying. "He's not comin' for breakfast today. Gave them to me on my way in."

"I'm not hungry," I mumble into my knees. She sighs, and pats my head.

"All right, well I'll leave them on the table, for if you change your mind." I'm grateful that she doesn't push me any further. She must understand that something happened last night and she's giving me some space to work through it. It's not in her nature to pry.

But when she returns at dinner time and finds me in exactly the same position she's more forceful. She gets me to my feet and makes me use the washroom, helps me wash my hands and face then sits me at the kitchen table. She gives me a glass of water and I stare at it, clutched between my trembling hands.

"Drink." She chides gently, and stands over me while I take a couple of sips. When she sets a steaming bowl of soup in front of me I stare at it blankly. She takes my face between her palms and forces me to look into her eyes, shining and grey, so much like my own, so much like my father's. "You can't be doin' this, you're too brave, too strong. You have to fight it, child. You have to fight." I am neither brave nor strong but I nod and make a show of eating a couple of mouthfuls of the soup, wild mushroom. I don't even taste it. Greasy Sae doesn't look convinced, but she leaves me be, tidying up and shooting me furtive looks before slipping out the back door.

As soon as she's gone I drop my spoon and any pretense of trying, and climb the stairs to the second floor. The closed door at the very end of the hall beckons me. I rest my hand on the knob, heart racing, unsure, but finally push the door open, slip inside and close it firmly behind me.

Everything is exactly as she left it that terrible night when the district was bombed. Her bed is neatly made, her books on the desk. I can almost pretend that she's simply at school and if I just sit here and wait she'll come running in, laughing.

Almost.

Impulsively I pull back the blanket and reach for her pillow, I bring it to my face and there she is: Prim, just faintly, her scent. Choking back a sob I wrap my arms around the pillow and try to imagine I'm hugging her instead, but it's no use, she's not here, she's never coming back and it's my fault.

I crawl into her small closet and collapse among the dresses and shoes and toys, the last small pieces of her, all that I have left of Prim. I curl up in the darkness, her pillow clutched tight, and let the blackness inside of me take over.

Do I sleep? I must, though I remember nothing, no nightmares, no dreams, no restfulness. I have no awareness of time passing. Sometimes I hear faint noises, maybe footsteps or voices, but nothing substantial penetrates the darkness, nothing intrudes on my solitude.

I'm drifting in and out of consciousness when I hear footsteps again and these catch my attention. These I recognise; heavy and slightly uneven, and definitely close by. They draw nearer with only the slightest of pauses until the closet door opens and Peeta is standing above me, silhouetted by the sun. He carefully lowers himself to sit facing me, our knees side by side in the cramped space. He's wearing the softest smile, part bemusement and part something else, I'm not sure, but his eyes look sad and regretful. I tuck my face back into the pillow and he simply sits silently beside me for a while.

"I had a long chat with Haymitch," Peeta finally says. I glance at him and he's still smiling softly, but not like he's laughing at me. "He told me about your tendency to hide in closets and ventilation shafts when you were in Thirteen." His smile widens, "I'm really glad right now that these houses don't have ventilation shafts, I don't know how I'd crawl into one with this leg." I look up to meet his eyes and they twinkle with mirth. "He also said I'm an asshole." I can feel my eyes widen in shock, the curse so unexpected from mild mannered Peeta. He notices and clarifies, "His word, not mine, but it's fitting."

He reaches over and pries my fingers from where they've been clutching the pillowcase for hours and begins to gently stretch and massage them, working out a day's worth of stiffness. It's comforting, I remember Prim doing the very same thing for me while we were holed up in Thirteen. I sniffle a little, teetering again on the edge of the blackness.

"I'm sorry Katniss," he continues, still concentrating on my hands. I bite my lip to stop the trembling; I don't want to cry anymore and I'm not certain I'm strong enough to hear what he has to say. But I have to make an attempt. He deserves that much. Besides, I can't run unless I physically climb over him, and I'd rather not do that either. He continues, haltingly, "Haymitch told me that I already spent five months punishing you for making impossible choices to keep us all alive, and that my memory loss is no reason to do it again." He pauses, and for a while only our breathing fills the small closet before he sighs, "It's not an excuse for my behaviour, but I'm finding it more difficult than I thought, working through these memories, because each one brings back a flood of emotions, of feelings I'm not sure how to process. I was so angry and I'm not entirely sure why, angry and jealous and overwhelmingly lonely. Those are emotions from another time I think, and I'm trying to figure out how to fit them into my memories without acting on them. Do you know what I mean?" I'm not really sure that I do, how could I, but I nod just the same.

We are quiet again. When he finishes massaging my fingers he holds my hands for a few moments longer and squeezes them gently. "I'm sorry that I hurt you," he continues, sadly. "I'm trying so hard to find out who I was, and who I am. Sometimes I think I have it figured out, but then I have a flashback or I lose my temper for no real reason. People keep telling me that I used to be a great guy, but I don't feel like that person very often."

I squeeze his hands back, in what I hope is a supportive way. "We're so broken Peeta, both of us, but you're still you, you're still the kindest person I've ever known." His eyes shine as his soft smile finally reaches them. I feel guilt flooding in; this sweet, gentle soul is apologizing to me when all of his pain is my fault. I find I can't hold his gaze and look back at the pillow in my lap, mumbling apologies as I do. "I'm so sorry Peeta, I never meant to hurt you. I made so many mistakes, I did so many things, so many terrible things."

His hand comes up and gently, but firmly tips my chin. His blue eyes lock with mine and he murmurs simply, "No." I could get lost in these eyes and I feel, not for the first time, like he can see all the way into me, see every terrible thing I've done, every insecurity, every fear, every secret. But instead of being full of loathing, they're kind and hold concern. "Katniss," he breathes, "We can't keep blaming each other. Or ourselves. I want my life to be about more than making up for the past. I want our lives to be more than that." His eyes are pleading now, begging me to understand, maybe to take this journey into the future with him. But what does he have to blame himself for? He understood the Capitol long before I did, lived through two games without compromising his principles, has even recovered from being tortured and hijacked. He's always been the one who was too good. And here is, offering to absolve me of my guilt. But there's too much darkness in me to be dispelled by his light. Too much blood on my hands. He releases my chin and I drop my head back down onto my chest.

When Peeta speaks again, his voice so soft and introspective I'm not sure if he's speaking to me at all. "I just keep hoping that one day I'll wake up and everything with be right in my mind again. That I'll remember all of the things that are real, and that all of the pictures they put in my head will be gone. That… that I'll know who I am. That I won't be confused, anymore." After a pause he whispers, "That I won't be afraid anymore." I reach out and lay my hand on his knee, but he just sits still, shoulders slumped, staring morosely at the closet wall. I know I should comfort him, I want to comfort him, but I don't have the words. I never have the words.

After a few quiet minutes Peeta lets out a deep sigh, and then flashes me a small smile. "Let's get out of here, my leg is going numb and you should eat." It's only then that I realize I'm hungry. How long have I been in here? Peeta has to crawl awkwardly out of the closet before he can pull himself up, but once he does he offers me his hand. I take it without hesitation, my body responding before my brain has a chance to overthink. His hand is large and so warm and I feel tingles all up my arm just from the contact. He squeezes my hand just slightly before releasing it and my breath catches. I turn away from him quickly, hoping he didn't notice. When I replace Prim's pillow and carefully smooth the blankets he stands back, watching but not interfering.

The kitchen has been tidied, yesterday's abandoned soup cleared away, the dishes washed up. "Where's Sae?" I ask. It's much later than I'd expected, well past 6, Sae should be here making dinner.

Peeta smiles before opening the oven and pulling out something wrapped in foil. "I told her that I'd make you dinner tonight." he says shyly. "She was worried when she came this morning and found the house empty and your bed not slept in."

I can feel the guilt squeezing at my chest, physically painful, and I sink into a chair, dropping my head into my hands, fighting back tears. Peeta is in front of me in a flash.

"No," he says, touching my shoulder, "I didn't mean it like that, don't feel guilty. She just cares about you. She's not upset, and neither should you be. I was with Haymitch when she came by to ask about you, that's all." I nod but I don't lift my head.

After a moment he turns away and busies himself with dinner. When I finally raise my head he's setting out plates of meat pie, golden pastry covering thick gravy and potatoes and chunks of what smells like squirrel. My mouth waters, I've never had a meat pie before, and this doesn't disappoint, it's amazing, and I tell Peeta so. He blushes, murmuring that he's glad I like it. I more than like it.

Dinner is a quiet affair, but it always is with us. When we've finished I gather the plates and begin to wash them, and Peeta slides in wordlessly beside me to dry, as if nothing has changed, as if things are as they were before we started working on sorting out his memories. I feel like he's reading my mind when he speaks. "Katniss," he begins, "I really am sorry about the other night. I know you were trying to help me, and I appreciate your help so much. I know I wrecked it by losing myself like that." I make to protest but he cuts me off, "Dr. Aurelius has been telling me for months that I need to let go of the past, to accept that there are things I can't change and things I'll never recover. To focus on making new memories. I'm going to take his advice." He's nodding at me, his expression so earnest, so guileless. "Remembering the past isn't worth the risk of hurting you, or Haymitch or anyone else. I remember the important stuff, everything else, well, it'll either come or it won't. I'm not going to force it anymore."

I flash him what I hope is an encouraging smile. I know I should tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, that hiding in the closet wasn't about him, not really, it was about escaping the blackness that lives in me, but I don't have the words. Instead I finish the dishes. Peeta stows the leftover pie in my refrigerator, then makes towards the back door. I don't want him to leave, I know if he does I'll find myself right back in Prim's closet.

"Peeta," I call him so softly, maybe he won't even hear. He does though, and he turns. His expression is carefully neutral but I think I see a sliver of hope in those soft blue eyes. I force myself to say the rest. "Will you stay for a while? We, uhm, we could sit in front of the fire?" The light that floods his eyes was worth the discomfort of asking.

We settle onto the couch, side by side, and watch the flames. I'm exhausted from two sleepless nights and the emotional drain of the past few days and can barely keep my eyes open. Without thinking I lean my head onto Peeta's shoulder. I sense his cheek leaning against my hair before I fall asleep.

I don't know how much time has passed when I feel myself being lifted off the couch and carried up the stairs. I war with myself a little, I want to wake up and protest that I'm perfectly capable of walking, but I'm so groggy and the strong arms encircling me are so warm and comfortable that, just this once, I relax and let him carry me. Peeta sets me gently on my bed and pulls the blankets up to my chin. I'm drifting off again when I feel his lips so softly brush against my temple. Their warmth follows me into slumber.


	5. Chapter 5

Standing in my garden I feel a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I've felt in a long time. Yesterday Katniss and I finished transplanting all of the seedlings I'd grown on windowsills in my kitchen and studio, and now they poke out of the dark earth in neat rows, leaves turning towards the sunshine. Working in the garden together has been healing, I admit that I didn't think she'd be interested in gardening but she surprised me, not only has she been eager to get her hands dirty but her plant knowledge far exceeds mine; it was Katniss who suggested planting marigolds in between the vegetable rows to deter pests. I hope she continues to be interested, it's really nice to have something tangible to share with her, and an excuse to spend more time together.

Somehow talking while we're preoccupied in the garden has been easier than when we're sitting in her living room, facing each other like adversaries. I've been able to keep my emotions in check as the memories swirl around in my head. I haven't had any huge breakthroughs, but some of the fuzzy pieces are clearer now and a few small details have come back. I'm happy for every tiny bit I regain. I told Katniss that it would be fine if I never got back all of my memory, and that's true to an extent, but I'm really hopeful that it won't come to that, I'm hopeful that the memories will continue to be recovered. Every piece that clicks into place in my mind makes me feel better, makes me feel more whole.

Today I feel strong. Today I feel almost like the man that people tell me I used to be.

Today I want to go to town.

Katniss is in the woods, she left right after breakfast. I know she was anxious to hunt, having missed several days while she helped with the garden. Even though she doesn't need to hunt for survival anymore the act of hunting, or perhaps the woods themselves, seems incredibly important to her mental health. The days that she comes home with her game bag full she seems brighter, more focussed.

Happier.

After I've watered the garden I sit out on my front porch with one of my sketchbooks to wait for Katniss. I'm sketching what I remember of the bakery, which sadly isn't everything. I was born above that bakery, as were both of my brothers, and my father too, and his father before him. It's hard to believe that it's gone. Part of me thinks it's a mistake, that I could just walk into town and find the bakery standing there, my brothers flicking bits of dough at each other, my father chuckling even as he tries to chide them for wasting ingredients. My mother, well, she'd probably be yelling at me to put on my apron and get to work. I miss them all.

The first time Dr. Aurelius showed me the videos of my family being interviewed during my first Games, what they call the 'final eight' interviews, they'd been strangers to me, but now I remember much more of them. Sometimes I even see my father in my dreams, though he never says anything. I can see his smile, that twinkle of pride in his eyes that I never saw when he looked at my brothers. We had a special relationship, he and I. We were so very much alike. What I wouldn't give to talk to him again.

I'm so lost in sketching and remembering, and in the melancholy that sometimes accompanies remembering, that I don't notice Katniss approaching. She sits down on the porch steps beside me, leaning over to look at my current sketch, and my train of thought is completely lost. She'll never understand the effect she has on me, just being near her makes my heart speed up. Her finger reaches out to lightly run over the lines of my drawing, something she does nearly every time she watches me draw.

"The apple tree was here," she says quietly, tapping the space just to the left of the bakery in my sketch. As soon as she says it I can see it in my mind's eye, the old, gnarled tree. The gaunt little girl leaning hopelessly against it in the rain.

"Is it still there?" I ask, my own voice barely a whisper. She shakes her head sadly. _Of course a tree wouldn't survive a firebombing,_ I think, but it makes me sad nonetheless. I need to see it. I need to see what is left. Taking a deep breath, I ask her, "Katniss, I want to go see the bakery today. Will you come with me?" I try to keep my voice light and even but am unsuccessful, I sound afraid. I sound small.

She nods. "Of course, Peeta." is all she says.

There doesn't seem to be any reason to put it off any longer, so after I deposit my sketchbook on the small table in my entryway we head out. The walk is nearly silent, I'm painfully aware of my footsteps as the gravel crunches beneath my feet, especially in light of how quiet her steps are. She's right; I'm loud when I walk.

When we reach the point where I would normally veer right towards the train station, which is the only thing in Twelve apart from Victor's Village that was spared in the firebombing (being too far from the town proper for the fire to have spread), we instead continue straight and I start to get disoriented. From here I should be able to see the roof of the Justice Building, but there is nothing. My confusion increases the further we go, where other rooflines should be there is only sky. Once we're close enough to make out the rubble that is all that's left of my former life I begin to slow down. Katniss adjusts her pace to mine but says nothing. The ground under our feet switches from gravel to paving stones, it's the only way I can tell we've entered the town square. I stand, bewildered, craning my head left and right, looking for something, anything to orient myself with. There are outlines of stone foundations, piles of rubble, a few partial walls. Everywhere there are carts filled with debris, ready to be taken – where? There are the beginnings of new construction too, piles of fresh lumber, stacks of bricks, new wooden frames covered in tarps that flap in the breeze. And everywhere dust, so much dust. A handful of men work nearby, wearing bright yellow helmets, but even with their presence the area feels eerily quiet. Haunted.

I don't know how long I stand in confusion before I feel Katniss's hand gently take mine. I let her lead me to a partial brick wall, but I don't recognize that we've crossed into what used to be the bakery until I see the melted and twisted chunk of metal. I realize with a start that the doors and frames of the bakery's two ovens melted in the fire. My father's voice rings in my head, _you have to stoke the fire hotter Peeta, good bread comes from a hot oven_. How hot must the fire that devastated Twelve have been to have melted ovens that were full of fire for more than 70 years? My family never had a chance; they were killed by the very thing that provided our livelihood for generations. I wonder if Snow thought that was funny, if he enjoyed the irony.

'_Not Snow_,' a voice says, and I look up into glowing red eyes, narrowed at me, full of hatred. Under them, shiny red lips sneer at me, fangs dripping with blood. '_You know who did this, I killed your family, I burned them all, and I'll kill you next_.' Fire blooms all around me, acrid smoke burning my eyes, making the room hazy and dark. I can feel the heat of the fire on my face, on my back, on my tender healing skin. All around me I hear screaming, all of them, they're screaming in pain as they burn. My heart pounds in terror, beating so fast it feels like it'll leap right out of my chest. Bile rises in my throat and I'm panting from the smoke and my fear. The mutt is reaching for me now, she's going to kill me, like she killed my family, like she killed everyone in Twelve. I have to stop her; I can't let her hurt anyone else. With shaking hands I try to push her away but she's as solid as steel. I lash out with all of my strength and a burst of pain blooms in my hand.

The pain seems to slow everything down, and the roar of the fire in my ears dims slightly. I hear a voice calling my name over and over; I squeeze my eyes closed tightly and try to hold onto it.

"Peeta! Peeta, it's not real, it's not real, you're safe Peeta," the voice implores, and I can hear the desperation. Slowly I begin to realize that the voice belongs to Katniss. I open my eyes and the orbs that stare back at me are not red, but silver, and they're filled with tears. "Come back Peeta, please, don't let him take you from me," she says softly, her voice cracking. Those words, she's said them to me before. Those words are real. Katniss is real, not the mutt. The mutt is not real.

I shake the last of the haze away, there is no fire, no smoke, there is just the sunshine of a spring afternoon and the concerned face of the woman I love watching me warily. We are both kneeling in the dust, I'm not sure how I got down here, but my prosthetic is twisted uncomfortably beneath me and chunks of debris press into my knee. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. I want to tell her that I'm so exhausted, that I just need to rest for a few moments but I can't say a word. I slump forward and feel her arms gather me against her chest, supporting my weight before everything goes dark.

There are flashes of light, the quiet murmur of voices. I feel a swaying, but I can't force my eyes open to see if it's real.

When I finally begin to surface again I realize that I'm lying down. I can feel the texture of my couch cushions against my cheek, the softness of a blanket under my chin. Reluctantly opening my eyes, my living room gradually comes into focus, golden in the late afternoon sun. A hand gently brushes my hair from my forehead and I crane my neck back to look into Katniss's eyes. For a few moments I just stare into their silver depths, unquestioningly, until the realization hits me like a train: we were at the ruins of the bakery, and now we're not, and I have no idea how that happened. I bolt upright, the sudden change making my head spin.

"Peeta, shh, it's okay, you're okay." Her hand reaches for me, slowly, tentatively, as if she's giving me time to back away from her. It's absolutely the last thing I want to do, I need her to tether me to reality. She touches my shoulder, then inches closer to me and starts to rub my back soothingly.

"What happened?" I manage to croak. Her hand stills, and her brow furrows slightly. She drops her eyes, but her hand begins to rub my back again.

"I was hoping you'd be able to tell me. What do you remember?" she asks softly. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking.

"We were at the bakery. There was fire."

"Not real," she interrupts, firmly. "There was no fire Peeta. We were where your family's bakery used to be. It burned down, but there was no fire there today." I nod; I know the fire was months ago, rationally I know that.

"I… I had an episode?" It comes out as a question, but it's not, not really. Obviously I did, and in front of Katniss no less.

"I think so," she says, nodding. "Your eyes, your pupils were really huge, just like in the Capitol." In the Capitol, when she pulled me back from the edge, when she kept me from dissociating. But I must have dissociated this time. Damnit, and I'd been doing so well at fighting them off! A horrifying thought comes to me.

"Did I… oh God Katniss, did I hurt you?" I'm so afraid to ask.

"No," she says firmly, but she won't meet my eyes, and the way she shifts a little beside me makes me think she's not telling the whole truth. My heart sinks, but then she continues, "You hurt your hand pretty good though. I don't think it's broken, but I can't be sure. You should probably put some ice on it at least." I look down; my right hand is wrapped in white bandages. I look up at her, questioningly. "You punched the oven," she offers. I remember now, the pain in my hand, the pain that became my window back to reality.

"I'm so sorry Katniss, I didn't think… I thought I could handle it. I… I should never have asked you to come with me." I'm morose, she watched me lose it, go mad, punch an oven of all things. If she knew what I probably thought I was punching…

"You have nothing to apologize for Peeta." She absolves me curtly, but her hand rubbing slow circles on my back softens the harsh edge to her words.

I drop my head into my hands. "How did I get here?" I ask her, my words slightly muffled.

"You mostly walked, though you were pretty out of it. Thom helped keep you upright." I nod, I'm always so exhausted after an episode.

"Thank you," I whisper. She says nothing, and we sit silently for a while, I keep my face hidden in my hands, she continues to rub my back.

"Peeta, will you tell me what it's like… when it happens?" I look up at her in horror; I can't possibly tell her that she is what haunts me, that sometimes I see her as a mutt coming to kill me. She must see my shock because she quickly clarifies, "No, not what you see, I… I think I have a pretty good idea about that actually." I cringe, but she continues, unperturbed. "Do you know what triggers them? I… I want to know where you go, so that if it happens again I'll know how to help you come back."

How do I explain to her when it's all so confusing even for me? How can I possibly tell her that she triggers the majority of them, directly or indirectly? Her presence, thinking about her, memories of her both real and not real. I can't. I won't. "Oh, well, I'm not really sure what triggers most of them, honestly," I lie. She seems to accept it anyway. But she needs to know more than that. Maybe if she understands what's happening then she'll know when to run away from me, when to flee for her safety. I take a deep breath, part of me is terrified that if I share this with her she'll back away, she'll decide that crazy Peeta isn't worth the effort. I wouldn't blame her. I sigh.

"I have flashes of the images that the Capitol implanted in my head," I start. "Sometimes I have flashes of real memories too, but the ones that the Capitol altered are the most upsetting and the hardest to ignore. I'm getting much better at it though, I can usually recognize the ones that aren't real, and fight them off. But sometimes, when I'm tired or anxious or… or afraid, sometimes I can't fight them. Sometimes I slip away inside my head and get locked in the altered memories. The doctor calls that 'dissociating'. I… I become a mutt." I finish sadly.

"No Peeta, never a mutt, that's not you." I shake my head and stare morosely at the cold fireplace. I wish it wasn't me, but I saw the video when I attacked her and killed Mitchell in that state. It was definitely me. "Peeta?" she continues. Even in my dazed and miserable state the sound of my name on her lips gives me goosebumps. "How do you stop it? The dissociating?"

"Remember when we were in the Capitol?" She nods and I continue, "I would pull against the handcuffs because the pain helped ground me in reality. Now I hold onto something hard or I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. Mostly it works, but not always I guess."

"So that's why you punched the oven today?" I can feel the heat rising in my face, I think I know why I punched the oven and it had nothing to do with reality.

"I, uh, no, I don't think so. I'm not really sure why I did that. But it helped, it didn't bring me back, but it, well it sort of made the shiny images fade a little, so that I could focus on reality. It was you who pulled me back."

"Me?" She seems skeptical.

"You. I heard your voice, your words, and I held onto them, and it led me back out of my mind." It seems a simplistic explanation, but it's the best I can describe it. A slow smile spreads across her face. Her hand moves to wrap around my back and she rests her head on my shoulder. I tilt my own head to rest against hers, and we sit comfortably together.

"I was so afraid Peeta," she admits softly and my heart hurts. She should be afraid of me, I know that, I could snap and kill her, but I would never ever wish her any harm. She surprises me though by continuing. "I thought you were gone. I was so afraid that you wouldn't come back. But you did. You came back to me."

My bottom lip is trembling and I turn my head to press my face into her hair, inhaling deeply before murmuring "Always."


	6. Chapter 6

When Peeta regains his bearings after his flashback I drag him across the green to my house for dinner. He protests, though I think it's less about him being worn out and more about being embarrassed. I'm not going to let him feel bad for what Snow did to him, that's my fault, not his. And while I don't have much for intuition I think he probably shouldn't be alone right now. I know I don't want to be alone either. His protests stop when I hold his hand, even though I'm not really doing it for him as much as for myself.

Seeing him hunched in the ruins of his former life, a grimace contorting his handsome face, mumbling frightening things about killing the mutt, I'd almost run away. Maybe I should have run away, especially after he shoved me hard and I fell in the dirt beside him. But when he opened his eyes, and they were so full of terror, I knew, I just knew that he wasn't trying to hurt me. He was afraid of me. I think that was even more painful. I begged and pleaded with him to come back, crying with relief when finally he did. I'm not sure how long I'd been holding him while he swayed in and out of consciousness when Thom wandered over but I was so grateful for his help getting Peeta home and even more grateful when he didn't ask any questions.

Greasy Sae serves us stew over wild rice, then hurries away. Her house is full these days with so many people returning to the district and she's always busy, but still she comes to take care of me. Another debt I'll never be able to repay.

I haven't seen wild rice in a long time, there used to be a man who sold it at the Hob, but he died years ago and his source was lost with him. This must have come on the Capitol train. Peeta stares at his plate intently, gripping the edge of the table tightly as he does. For a few moments I'm sure that he's having another episode, that I've pushed him over the edge by selfishly not wanting to be alone, but then he shakes his head and looks up at me, eyes wide and a smile spreading across his face.

"My grandfather used to make wild rice," he says softly. "I remember."

"Tell me about him?" I ask. Peeta's face lights up.

"I think he was my favourite person in the world when I was little. He used to live with us, above the bakery. I was six, I think, when he passed away. He decorated most of the fancy cakes, until his hands got too shaky. After that he mostly took care of me and my brothers so that my parents could concentrate on running the bakery. I remember him cooking dinner for us most nights, he loved wild rice, and he used to make noodles too." Peeta's smile widens at the memory. I'd made noodles once with our tesserae grain, they'd been terrible, rubbery things that Prim and I could barely choke down. The look on Peeta's face suggests his grandfather's noodles were much nicer. I wonder if Peeta knows how to make noodles?

"He used to teach me when my father was busy and my mother wasn't around. He's the one who first put a piping bag in my hands. I was so young, too young probably, but he'd pull a stool up the counter in the mornings after my brothers left for school and let me pipe flowers onto the back of a bowl." Peeta chuckles before continuing. "I was decorating cupcakes before I could write my own name." I can see the pride on his face, and I suspect it's pride in being able to remember these details as much as it is pride in his skills. His laugh breaks me out of my reverie. "He used to call Rye 'Biscuit'. Brann and I were still teasing Rye about that years later. Nothing would get him mad faster than one of us calling him 'Biscuit' in front of a girl." I laugh at that too. I remember Rye, I didn't know him well but he had quite a reputation at our school as a ladies' man, and I doubt they were calling him 'Biscuit' at the slag heap.

"Did your grandfather have a pet name for you too?" I ask. He nods tentatively, as if he's not quite certain. "What did he call you?" Peeta's brow furrows and he's quiet for a while, thinking, trying to remember. Then he chuckles, I don't know if I've ever actually noticed Peeta's chuckle before, it's really deep and rumbly. I like the sound of it. I raise an eyebrow at him, but I'm smiling, that chuckle is infectious.

"Squishy."

"What?" I ask.

"That's what grandfather called me. Squishy." He's flushed, but his eyes twinkle with amusement. A giggle escapes me, I can't help myself, and then I can't stop either. My hands fly up to cover my mouth but it's no use, the laughter keeps bubbling out.

"Squishy?" I manage to say in between laughs. "Why Squishy?"

He's still chuckling. "I think it was because I had chubby cheeks as a baby. I guess they were squishy?" His shrug and sheepish half smile push me over the edge and I'm howling with laughter.

I laugh and laugh, and each time I think I might be done I imagine calling Peeta 'Squishy' and start laughing again. He gives me a look of mock disapproval. "I don't think it's **that** funny," he insists. That just makes me laugh more.

Tears are rolling down my face and my stomach aches. "I am so going to call you Squishy from now on," I gasp. Peeta scowls, a look so foreign on his face that I'm overcome with giggles once more.

Peeta rolls his eyes. "Trust me when I say that no adult male ever wants to be referred to as 'Squishy', Katniss." I can't ever remember laughing like this. It feels so good. For just a moment I feel guilty, that I could be enjoying myself like this when Prim isn't here, but then I realize that she'd be the first to tease Peeta, about his old nickname. And he would have let her too. My laughter dies down but the smile stays on my face.

We eat the rest of our now cold meal in near silence, punctuated by my periodic giggles that burst forth from time to time. Peeta shakes his head at me but smiles broadly, eyes twinkling. When we finish I drop our dishes in the sink but don't start the water. Instead I drag Peeta into the living room.

"Tell me more stories, Peeta." I entreat, falling down onto the couch and dragging him with me. He seems surprised by my request, but pleased.

Over the next couple of hours we share stories of our childhood. It's amazing to watch, as Peeta tells me stories about his brothers and father and friends more and more of his memories are unlocked and he has more stories to share. He is elated, and smiles almost non-stop. I smile too; I'm amazed by how little I really know about Peeta's life before the reaping that changed everything. Sometimes it's nearly impossible to believe that we spent 11 years at the same school and grew up only a mile apart.

He tells me all about his eldest brother, Brann, who I saw a handful of times when I went to trade at the back of the bakery but whose name I never knew. Five years older than Peeta, Brann was the good kid, studious and serious. Brann had gotten engaged about 6 months before our first reaping but Peeta can't remember if he had gotten married. "I'd like to think I'd remember if he had," he says with a tinge of sadness. "But I can't even remember his fiancée's name."

There are far more stories about Rye. Only 2 years apart, Rye and Peeta were brothers and best friends. They looked a lot alike too, Rye was a little taller but both had their father's blond curls and twinkling blue eyes, and when they were wearing matching uniforms in the wrestling ring together it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. Rye was funny and boisterous, the kind of kid who attracted trouble but who was generally quite good at getting himself out of it. I remember overhearing the girls in school swooning over Rye, who had no shortage of girlfriends. The affection in Peeta's voice as he talks about his brothers is obvious and sweet.

He turns introspective. "Things were never the same between us after I got back from the Games. My mother was embarrassed by me, didn't want me to be in the front shop of the bakery since she thought I'd scare away customers. That didn't stop her from taking the monthly portion of my winnings I offered them." He shoots me a look that's almost apologetic. By now he's lying on the couch and I'm sitting on the floor with my head tipped back against his stomach. "Dad... Dad didn't want to upset her more so he never really said anything. Brann just had no idea how to deal with me, I wasn't his little brother anymore, I was a victor, and so completely different. And Rye…" Peeta is quiet for so long I think maybe he's not going to continue, but then he does. "I don't think Rye ever forgave himself for not volunteering for me, the way that you did for Prim."

There is nothing I can say about that. Volunteering for Prim was completely impulsive and I will never know if it was the right choice. Ultimately it didn't even save her life, it only gave her an extra year and a half. I can't continue on this train of thought or I'll plunge headlong into the darkness again, so instead I change the subject completely and begin to tell Peeta about Prim's first day of school, how my father had managed to switch his shift at the mines to walk his two girls to school, Prim's excitement to go to school followed by her disappointment that she and I wouldn't share a classroom. The paper crowns with their names on them that each child wore that day, and how she so very carefully brought hers home to show our mother. How she befriended every child in the class that first day. How she practically flew the entire walk back home she was so happy.

As I trail off I realize that Peeta has fallen asleep. When I lift my head off his stomach he doesn't even stir. He looks so innocent when he sleeps, the weary, careworn expression he carries in wakefulness has melted away and he looks years younger. With his curls falling over his forehead and those outrageously long eyelashes caressing his cheeks I can almost envision the towheaded toddler who adored his grandfather and big brothers. I should probably wake him, this couch isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but I can't bring myself to disturb him when he looks so sweet. Instead I grab the blanket that my mother knit and cover him with it, adding another log to the fire at the same time.

Part of me wants to climb onto the couch beside him and sleep curled in his arms, like we used to on the trains, but I don't know how he would feel about that, or even if it would be safe. He's a different boy than the one who loved me so unconditionally, and I'm a different girl too. But spending time with Peeta is helping me to heal, I can feel it, and I'd like to think it's helping him too. It's been nice, really nice to just be together, talking or not talking, comfortable either way. I feel a little hopeful, for the first time in a very long time. My dandelion, bringing me hope yet again.

When I turn off the lamp by his head I pause to gently brush his hair off his forehead and whisper "Good night, Squishy," before I creep out of the living room and upstairs to my bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

It's Katniss's birthday. I wish I could say that I remembered by myself, but instead it was Sae suggesting with a sly wink yesterday after breakfast that I might want to bring a cake to dinner tonight. Katniss had already left for the woods and I was helping with the dishes. I think whatever Sae is planning is a secret, but whether that's to surprise Katniss or to prevent her from protesting (and likely hiding) if she knew I'm not certain.

Either way I'm thrilled to make Katniss a cake. I can remember when she would bring Prim to look at the cakes in the window display cases of my parents' bakery, almost every Saturday for years. Prim would be looking at the cakes, bouncing on her toes with excitement and Katniss would be watching Prim with a hint of a smile softening her face. And me, I'd be watching Katniss, taking care to make sure that she didn't see me, and that my mother didn't either. My father knew about my feelings for Katniss, Rye and Brann did too, but until the games my mother had no idea. It was with good reason that I never told her, and that the others kept my secret. When I returned after the games, the first games I mean, my mother was livid that I had 'disgraced their good name' by professing my love for a 'filthy Seam brat'. But what did she know about love anyway, she hadn't loved my father and she certainly hadn't loved me.

I shake my head to clear away those thoughts, she's gone now and whatever she might have been she didn't deserve what happened to her. None of them did. And it feels wrong to think badly of the dead.

I've baked just a small cake, it will be a small gathering for dinner after all. The cake itself is chocolate, and I've tinted the buttercream frosting a rich green, not only because it's Katniss's favourite colour, but also because it makes a nice background for the gum paste flowers that I've made. I wanted to cover the cake with katniss flowers, the flowers for which she was named, but I've never seen a katniss flower. I know that they're white, and look sort of like a violet, but that's not much of a description to go on. I debated a lot of different flowers but so many have bad memories associated with them (I might never be able to make a gum paste rose again!) I finally took my inspiration from the flowers growing all over my lawn. Not flowers at all actually, weeds, but beautiful nonetheless. So I made purple gum paste clover and yellow gum paste dandelions. I hope they'll remind her of the meadow. Or what the meadow used to look like anyway.

I tuck the cake into a small box, I'm pretty sure that Katniss is in the woods right now but just in case I'd rather she not see the cake and have Sae's surprise ruined. But when I cross the green I see Haymitch storming out of Katniss's house, a crumpled bunch of papers clutched tightly in his hand. He's muttering under his breath.

"Hello Haymitch," I smile at him. He looks up and scowls, but stops.

"Boy," is his only greeting. I can smell the liquor on him from 10 feet away.

"Will we be seeing you at dinner tonight?" I try to talk to Haymitch as if he's a functional human being. Days like today it feels like a waste of energy. He grunts.

"With that prickly thing in there?" he gestures back at Katniss's house with his chin. "I don't think so. I've had about enough of her pretty face for today." The way he sneers when he says 'pretty' makes my blood boil. Without another word he staggers away towards his house again.

"Don't be late," I call at his back. He gives no indication that he's heard me, but I'm not about to chase him down.

Katniss must be home if Haymitch was just speaking with her. I'm glad I put the cake in a box.

I walk around to the back door and open it gently. She isn't in the kitchen. That's a bit of luck. I hide the box on one of the upper shelves in the pantry, and sneak back out. Well, inasmuch as I can sneak anyway, I've been told that I'm as loud as a train when I walk. I don't think that's quite true, but I certainly don't have the gift of silent steps like Katniss does.

Back at home I put the finishing touches on a picture I've drawn to give Katniss as a gift, a yearling buck peeking around a tree, his fuzzy antlers just coming in. It's a scene she described to me a few weeks ago; she'd been so moved by his beauty and his curiosity that she hadn't been able to shoot him. She told me that she'd watched him for some 20 minutes before he simply turned and sauntered off, too young to be afraid of humans. I've shaded him with the coloured pencils I ordered from the Capitol, they don't blend as nicely as chalk but the colours are more intense. I hope she likes it.

Just before 6 I head back out across the green and let myself in the back door of Katniss's house again. Sae is bent over the stove, stirring something in a large pot. I kiss her cheek and hand her a warm loaf of bread speckled with seeds. She pats my shoulder gently, "In the living room," she says and turns back to her cooking. Her granddaughter plays quietly at the table with a rag doll; I wave at her as I wander through the kitchen and into the living room. Katniss is standing on the fireplace hearth looking at the stacks of envelopes big and small that cover every inch of the mantle.

"What is all of that?" I ask. She startles a little, as if she hadn't heard me approach. I find that hard to believe, but maybe she was lost in her thoughts.

She jumps down from the hearth, delicately landing without a sound. She's cat-like that way. "Mail," she shrugs.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "That's a lot of mail."

She nods slowly, "Yeah, I know, Haymitch gave me hell earlier about not opening them. I can't imagine that there's anything I want to read in there anyway."

I study the stacks, from where I stand it looks like probably two hundred envelopes, maybe more. "When was the last time you opened your mail Katniss?" I can't imagine getting this much mail in a year. She shrugs again and suddenly I'm sure. "Katniss, you've never opened your mail, have you?"

"I opened one letter." She sounds defensive. I grin at her, I can't help it.

"Let me help you sort through it at least," I offer. She stares at me for a while, chewing on her bottom lip, then nods, and climbs back onto the hearth. Before I can move to help her she starts tossing the stacks, some loose, some bound with twine, over her shoulder. They land on the coffee table and on the floor, some slide under chairs or float behind the couch. I just roll my eyes; she can be so bratty when she's avoiding something. I gather up the letters and small packages from the floor and under the chairs, trying to avoid more flying squares of paper as I do, and stacking everything on the coffee table. When she finally pulls the last of them off the mantle and turns to join me her eyes widen.

"I didn't realize there was so many," she admits.

We work quietly, sorting the mail into piles. There's a huge pile of what just might be fan mail, postmarked from every district in envelopes big and small. Katniss thinks they're all hate mail and wants to throw them all away, but I convince her to hang onto them for a while, promising that I'll sit with her when she opens them eventually. We make a smaller pile of letters from friends: Johanna, Annie, Cressida, even Delly. There's a pile of official looking missives from the new Panem government. A surprisingly large pile of letters from Plutarch, these she tosses into the cold fireplace and I don't even attempt to stop her. A half-dozen thin letters and thicker packets from Dr. Aurelius, I move these out of her reach before they can join Plutarch's letters. She hasn't phoned Dr. A. yet, but I hope eventually she will. A lumpy envelope from the burn ward of the Capitol hospital where we were both treated which she looks at with confusion. "What on earth could they have sent me," she wonders aloud. I don't have any idea. There are letters bearing the logos of each of the new media outlets that have cropped up around Panem, and letters that seem to have come from Games sponsors, those we'll toss, Katniss doesn't owe any of them anything.

I have just a moment to reflect on how odd it is that in several months' worth of mail there isn't a single note from either Gale or Katniss's mother, especially since it's her birthday, when there's a knock at the front door. Katniss stands and looks at me questioningly, but Sae darts past her to open the door.

A few moments later Thom walks into the living room, a bunch of red tulips in hand. He thrusts them at Katniss, smiling. "Happy birthday Miss Katniss." he says shyly. Her eyes are wide, panicked. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out as she looks up at him, bewildered. Her speechlessness is kind of adorable, but I take pity on her and step forward, extending my hand out to Thom. He shakes it firmly, and we exchange greetings before Sae shepherds us all into the dining room.

I don't think I've ever been in Katniss's dining room before. Though our houses are identical, I removed the table and most of the chairs from what was supposed to be the dining room in my house, converting it into a studio instead since it gets the best light with its wide south-facing window. In this house the wide window faces north, and the room is dark and heavy. Sae has done her best to make it more festive with candles and a crisp white table cloth, and she manages to find a glass vase in the sideboard to hold Thom's tulips. Haymitch must have snuck in through the kitchen; he's already sitting at the table and has made himself at home with a bottle of wine uncorked beside him. Sae's granddaughter Lila sits beside him, making a cape for her doll with her napkin. Katniss stands off to the side watching, unsure. When I gently lay my hand on the small of her back she startles and turns her head sharply to look at me, her eyes are wild and frightened. I lean in and whisper softly in her ear. "It's okay, this is everyone, it's just us. No other surprises." I know I've guessed the source of her anxiety correctly when her shoulders drop and I can feel her tension ebb a little.

The meal is absolutely perfect, the food is wonderful, and Thom and Sae fill all of us in on the latest gossip from around the district. Haymitch is drunk but somehow manages not to be obnoxious. Sae gives Katniss a small leather pouch she made, and inside is a rock that her granddaughter Lila has painted in blotches of bright primary colour. I give her the sketch I made for her and her face lights up in recognition.

I bring in the cake to ooos and ahhs from the others, but Katniss merely stares at it, her eyes shining. She reaches a finger out to ghost along the edges of a dandelion, her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. Somehow Thom has a slender candle and Sae grabs matches. When they set the candle on the cake and light it Katniss seems confused. "You have to make a wish, and then blow out the candle," Thom explains.

"Why?" Katniss has never been one for ceremony or superstition, and I'm not sure if she's ever had candles on a birthday cake before. Actually, I'm pretty sure she's never had a birthday cake at all.

"Just do it," Haymitch barks. Katniss closes her eyes and sits quietly for what feels like a long time, then leans forward and gently blows out the candle. Lila claps happily and Sae puts thick slices onto plates for everyone. "What did you wish for Sweetheart?" Haymitch sneers. Katniss blushes.

"Won't come true if she tells," Thom says earnestly. Katniss looks relieved and attacks her cake with relish, though I notice that she saves the yellow gum paste flower for last.

Eventually Lila is falling asleep in her cake so Sae takes her home. Haymitch and Thom leave soon after. I stay and help Katniss clean up, she's washing the dishes while I dry when she says, quietly, "Peeta, do you remember the bread, and - and the day after?" Like I'd forget that ever again, it's one of the first memories that I recovered in District 13. I make an affirmative noise and wait to see where she's going with this. She keeps washing the dishes, her eyes fixed on what she's doing, but she continues softly, "When I picked that dandelion the next day in the school yard, it wasn't just a flower to me Peeta, it was a realization, I saw that dandelion, and I remembered the lessons my father had taught me about survival. I took Prim to the meadow right afterwards and we picked all of the dandelions we could find, and we ate them that night with the last of the bread you gave me. After that I started gathering other greens and herbs from near the fence, and eventually I started sneaking under the fence into the woods and hunting, like my father had taught me to. I started to take care of my family, and life got better for us." She's quiet again, but I get the impression that she's not done with this story, and I know with Katniss that you just have to wait until she's ready to continue. We finish the dishes in silence. It's not until she's drying her hands that she speaks again. "You know that I don't believe in fate or signs or anything like that." I nod, Katniss is the most pragmatic person I've ever known, I doubt she even really made a wish over her candle earlier. She turns to face me then, looking up at me with silver eyes shining. "Since that day I've associated dandelions with hope. And with you." My eyes widen as she continues, "I wouldn't have seen the dandelion if it wasn't for you, I'd given up hope sitting under that apple tree in the rain. When you burned the bread that gave me life you opened my eyes, you made me see that life could go on, despite my losses." I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, but Katniss isn't finished. "And then tonight, on the cake, the dandelions… it's like you're reminding me once more. That life can be good again…"

She steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck, holding me tightly. I hesitate just a moment before wrapping my arms around her too. I haven't held Katniss since the Capitol, it feels so very right, her small body melds perfectly into mine, her breath tickling my neck. I'm sure she can feel me shaking, feel my heart pounding against her. I'm overwhelmed by her words, by her embrace, by the fact that she's letting me into her life, even if just a little.


	8. Chapter 8

True to his word Peeta has been coming over every evening, and after we have dinner together he helps me go through the huge pile of what he calls my 'fan mail'. He skims them, looking for anything that he thinks might upset me, then we read the letters out loud to each other. I let him read most of them to me; it's soothing, listening to his voice. And he was right; most of the letters are sweet, if strange, asking me how life is in District 12, asking about Peeta, thanking me for my part in the revolution. That surprises me, I figured after the business with Coin that people would hate me, or at least be anxious to forget the deranged Mockingjay, but apparently not. A surprising number are from children. A couple of the letters even contain marriage proposals, which makes Peeta huff, and I can't hold back my laughter both at the ridiculousness of some stranger wanting to marry me based on nothing but those television propos, and at Peeta's reaction.

I've been reading the other letters too, the letters from people I know personally, who know me too. These are harder; I can only manage one every few days. Cressida is brightly encouraging, Johanna brash and crude, and all of them are filled with love and good wishes. It hurts. I feel undeserving. I can't bring myself to open Annie's letter, knowing that Finnick's death is my fault, sweet, mad Annie, all alone in the world because of me. Her letter will have to wait.

It's rainy today, a cold drizzle that keeps me away from my woods and makes me grumpy. Peeta is in town with Thom, they've been speaking on and off since my birthday, about the old bakery site I think. I should probably ask Peeta about that, he's so good at asking me how I am and what I need, I never indicate that I'm even remotely interested in his life. I mean, I am, I guess, it just seldom occurs to me to ask. I should make a point to ask him how he is and what he's up to. He doesn't have many left in his life either.

It's been just over a week since my birthday, another Capitol train full of mail has come and gone, I've received another bundle of letters, and still there isn't one from my mother. She hasn't called either, I'm not sure I'd answer if she did but that's moot because the phone has been silent. And I realize that I'm angry about that. Really angry. She's my mother, and it was my 18th birthday. Before the war 18 was a kind of big deal, the last year that you were eligible for the Reaping, the year that your formal education ended and you would start to work. Now there's no Reaping and universities in other districts are beginning to open their doors to students everywhere, the new government has made training one of their priorities, but 18 still feels like it should be special. I'm an adult now, legally anyway. I've been an adult in practically every other sense for years. Greasy Sae and Peeta and Thom and even Haymitch wished me a happy birthday, but not my own mother. Not the woman who gave birth to me on that very day. It's true that I never really cared about my birthday in the past, except of course for the one that enabled me to sign up for tesserae, but with her so far away and with everything that's happened… no, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. She doesn't care what happens to me, she's made that abundantly clear.

Suddenly I'm seized with a desire to confront her about that, to ask her why she hasn't had anything to do with me in so many months. Before I can think about whether it's a good idea I've found her number, still on the desk in the study, and dialed the phone. She answers on the first ring, the sound of her voice momentarily striking me dumb. "Hi Mom," I manage to croak out.

"Oh." She sounds surprised, maybe even displeased to hear my voice. "Hello Katniss." That's it, no how are you or I've missed you, nothing but hello. And I'm furious.

Dispensing with any pleasantries I bark "Do you know what last week was?" I wait, but I'm met with silence, which only fuels my fury. "It was my birthday." She makes a little sound, something like 'Hm', but it sounds more bored than contrite.

"You forgot didn't you," I accuse, unable to keep the rage out of my voice. She sniffs.

"I'm sorry; I've been really busy here with the hospital…" her voice trails off.

"Busy? You've been busy for months mom, you never call, you never write, I could be dead here and you'd never even know!" She gasps a little when I say 'dead' and I cringe, knowing that she's thinking of Prim, of the daughter who **is** dead, but I can't stop. "You don't care at all, do you?

"It's not like that," she snaps, but she doesn't deny it. "You don't understand, I've lost so much…"

"I don't understand? I don't understand?" I scream into the phone. "You think I don't understand loss, mother? You don't think I have nightmares every night about all of the people I loved who are dead? You're the only family I have left and you won't even acknowledge that I exist! You abandoned me, again! I live alone in an empty house surrounded by the burned out remains of everything I ever knew. Alone! And where are you? Off in District Four, building a life without me." My voice cracks a little, which only serves to make me angrier.

"You don't need me anyway, you made that clear, and you've barely endured me for years!"

"You left us to die!" I'm incredulous.

"What right do you have to lecture me?" Her voice is surprisingly strong, angry, edged with what sounds like hatred. "I lost my husband Katniss, you have no idea what that's like. And then I lost my child. She was my flesh and she's gone."

"I was more of a mother to Prim than you were," I spit, spitefully.

"You were a menace," she screams. "You with your propos and speeches, I bet you thought you were inspiring, that you were noble," she spits, derisively. She hardly sounds like my mother anymore. My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I barely hear the front door of my house closing and footsteps coming through the hall. But my mother isn't finished yet. "Do you have any idea what you did to Prim? She was so bright, she had such a future ahead of her. She was going to be someone. Do you know why she was even in the Capitol Katniss?"

"Coin sent her. To help the rebellion," I answer. I know that Prim, while young, had chosen to be there, had the maturity and skills to make a difference. I know she had wanted to help because that's the kind of selfless person she was.

"She wasn't there because she wanted to help the rebellion. She was there because she wanted to be a hero, like her big sister." She sneers the word 'hero', contempt dripping from every syllable. "She was there because of you Katniss. It's your fault that she's dead!"

We gasp in tandem. Her words hang between us, almost visible, tangible. As if in slow motion a wall of blackness crushes the air from my lungs, I can't breathe. The phone drops from my hand, hitting the table with a loud clatter and the dark presses in. I'm only dimly aware of hands on my arms, shaking me. Peeta's voice from far down a tunnel, yelling at me to breathe, before the blackness claims me in blissful oblivion.

My first conscious impression is of a large hand stroking my hair, and for a brief moment I'm transported to the tiny house in the Seam, to Sunday mornings when my father would gently wake me in the quiet of pre-dawn to go hunting together in the woods. Perhaps today he'll take me to the lake and I can practice swimming, and we'll catch fish, or maybe a duck. I love all of my Sundays with my father, but the days we go to our lake are my favourite. When I open my eyes though it's not my father's calm grey eyes looking back at me, it's Peeta's sad blue ones, looking afraid and maybe a little angry. He's speaking to me, I can see his lips moving, but all I can hear is my mother's voice, over and over again, '_It's your fault Katniss, your fault, they're all dead because of you…'_

I'm sucked back into the blackness again, time seems to stop. I'm dimly aware of voices, faces occasionally swim into my vision but I can't process who they are or guess what they want. When I drift into sleep I relive that day, that horrible day in the City Circle. I watch Prim burn over and over, only now she screams at me with my mother's voice, '_It's your fault Katniss, you killed me! It should have been you! You're worthless!'_ Each time I awaken to blackness and the feeling of rawness in my throat but I see nothing, hear nothing.

I'm not sure how many hours or maybe days have passed when I feel myself being scooped up and cradled in strong arms. The movement startles me into reality, however briefly, and I open my eyes. I'm looking up at Peeta, who is staring straight ahead, concentrating as he carries me up the stairs of my house. His expression is pained, but his arms are steady and comforting. I turn my head ever so slightly to nuzzle my face into his shoulder. His arms tighten almost imperceptibly around me, but he says nothing.

He lays me on my bed, so gently, then crouches down until his face is level with mine, and strokes my hair, murmuring soft words that I can't make out, but that are comforting anyway.

Through the fog and anguish I sense him standing to leave and reach out, grasping his hand tightly. "Peeta, stay. Please." He hesitates only a moment before nodding. I close my eyes and release his hand, and a few seconds later I feel the bed dip as he slides in behind me. He leaves a gap between us, but I don't want that, so I use what little energy I can muster to shuffle backwards, pressing my back against his chest. He wraps his arms tentatively around me and I grasp his hand again, entwining our fingers. He sighs quietly and I can feel his warmth and steadiness enveloping me, permeating the blackness. I feel the softest of kisses in my hair as he settles in, and faintly I hear his whispered response _'Always_.' His breath tickles the back of my neck as it gradually slows and deepens, the weight of his arm subtly increasing, his fingers in mine going slack. When I'm sure he's asleep I whisper into the night, "The first time you held me like this, in the cave, it was the safest I'd felt since before my father died. In the middle of that hell you were my island of stability, my sanctuary. You've always been here for me. Always."


	9. Chapter 9

It's been more than 3 days since Katniss has left her bed for anything other than using the washroom and I'm terrified. She drifts in and out of sleep, screaming from nightmares she seems trapped in. Sometimes she seems to focus, just momentarily, and my heart jumps, but then her eyes glaze over again and she's gone. Only the nighttime gives me hope: the first night she had a moment of clarity long enough to ask me to stay with her, which, of course, I did. I slid into her bed and gathered her into my arms, and she responded, pressing back into me in our position of comfort from the trains. Each night since I've climbed in with her, and each time she's pressed back into me again, seeking that comfort. I can only hope it helps her. I know it helps me.

Greasy Sae sits with her in the morning and evening, trying to coax a bite of food, a sip of water past her lips but Katniss is mostly unresponsive. Tonight Sae pats my arm gently as she exits Katniss's room, an untouched bowl of soup in hand. "She's come out of it before, she'll come back again. We've just got to be patient." I think she's trying to make me feel better, but I can tell she doesn't fully believe what she's saying herself.

Haymitch came by, just once, to check up on her, but I'm not certain he could even see her little form curled up tight in the bed. He wouldn't come further than the door to her bedroom, and he mumbled under his breath nearly the entire time he was here, which wasn't very long.

I, on the other hand, have only left her side to bake things to try to tempt her back: cheese buns, brownies, cinnamon rolls, but nothing has gotten a response. I've done what little baking I have in Katniss's kitchen, which is less than ideal. Even though it's identical in layout to mine it's poorly set up and sparsely equipped. I bake things for Katniss that she won't eat, and breads for the crews who are helping to rebuild the district. Sae delivers them for me so that I don't have to leave Katniss's house.

When I'm not baking I sit beside her bed, watching her. Today I call Dr. Aurelius, Katniss would be livid that I've discussed her with the doctor, but I feel like I'm going out of my mind waiting for her to snap out of her stupor, my frustration with my inability to help is threatening my own mental stability. The doctor is kind, encouraging me to be patient. "Speak to her Peeta," he counsels, "Touch her, if you feel comfortable. Do things to help ground her in the present."

Which is how I find myself kneeling beside her bed, ignoring the pain in my leg that this position elicits from the seam between flesh and metal. In this position my face is level with hers, only inches apart. I stroke her hair, tucking the strands behind her ear. Her eyes are closed but I don't think she's asleep; her breathing is too shallow, too quick. In a low, calm voice I talk to her, tell her how Sae comes every day and worries about her, tell her that Haymitch visited, drunk as ever. I tell her about the things I've been baking in her kitchen, joking about how I'm going to set up her kitchen like mine so that I can teach her to bake too. I describe to her the world outside her room, the lilacs that are just starting to open outside her back door and how already the smell perfumes Victor's Village. I talk and talk and talk, until my mouth is dry and I'm sick of the sound of my voice, and still there is no reaction. And something inside me breaks. The fear and desolation that I've been trying to push back overwhelms me. I lay my head beside hers and start to cry. "Katniss," it comes out as a sob, "Please don't leave me. I need you." I close my eyes tightly and cry, releasing days of pent-up sadness and helplessness.

I've started to drift, exhausted from my emotional outburst and from days of constant vigilance, when I feel it; my hair being brushed back from my forehead. My eyes fly open and Katniss's silver eyes stare back at me, focussed and alert. "Peeta," she whispers, her voice a soft rasp from disuse. I raise my head to look at her, my mouth open in shock. I'm afraid to say or do anything, afraid that she'll disappear again. What she says next jolts me out of my stupor.

"Do you hate me, Peeta?"

"What? No. No! Why? Never…" I trail off, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"You did hate me. You should hate me. I deserve it. Everything you've lost, everything you've suffered. It's all because of me." Her tone is strangely detached, straightforward, no self-pity in her voice. I shake my head vehemently, trying to find words to contradict her, but she continues as if she doesn't see me. "You lost your leg, your home, your sanity, all my fault. Your family is dead because of me. They're dead and it's my fault." Rationally I know it isn't Katniss's fault, the Capitol was behind everything, but her words feed the demons in my minds, they're too much in line with the lies that the Capitol fed me. In my exhausted and overwhelmed state I'm struggling to distinguish the truth, to hold onto what I know is real.

"Katniss stop," I manage, eyes pressed tightly closed, fists clenched beside me. There is silence as I pull myself back from the abyss, back into the present. When I open my eyes again she's still staring at me, but her face is a mask of misery.

"She said it was my fault that…" she stops, and I can feel her slipping away again, back into her dark place. Impulsively I grab her shoulders.

"No, none of it was you Katniss!"

She makes a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "She said Prim is dead because of me. That it's my fault." I can feel her whole body shaking under my hands. I climb up to sit on her bed as quickly as my numb leg will allow and gather her into my arms. We hold each other tightly, guarding each other against the monsters, real and imagined, as she whispers in halting words about the phone conversation that lead to her meltdown. I'm utterly outraged, I've been angry with Katniss's mother for months, for abandoning her daughter yet again, but this cruelty is beyond what I imagined she was capable of. She had always, it seemed, been distant and neglectful, but this level of malice was something I assumed only my own mother had been capable of.

I rock Katniss in my arms as we cling together. "She's lashing out at you because she's in pain, but she's wrong Katniss, none of this was your fault, you've always protected everyone, always done what you felt was right. It's not your fault." I emphasize. Her body sags against mine, utterly exhausted. I help her to lie back down. She pulls back a corner of the blanket in silent invitation and I climb in beside her unhesitatingly. As before, she presses back into me, moulding her back to my chest. I wrap my arms around her and pull her in tighter.

I'm concerned that tomorrow I'll find her unresponsive again but I'm so tired that I simply can't fight sleep. Before I fall over the edge I hear her whisper, "Thank you for not giving up on me."

In the morning, before I even open my eyes, two things immediately register in my brain: the sun is fully up, and I'm alone. I haven't slept past the dawn in months, it's disorienting, and I haven't slept straight through the night like that in longer than I can remember. But the more pressing concern is Katniss's absence. I'm out of her bed and most of the way down the stairs before I catch the soft murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. I walk in to find Sae at the stove, ladling out hot grain and raisins and Katniss at the table drinking tea and smiling.

Smiling.

"Good morning Peeta," Sae greets me, pressing a bowl into my hands and kissing my cheek. She doesn't seem upset, or even the least bit surprised, to find me here, obviously having spent the night. Then again, she probably knows I've been here the past four nights anyway. If anything, she seems happy to see me.

Katniss looks up at me, her expressive silver eyes clear and bright. She motions for me to sit beside her and I do, gratefully. We eat quietly, like every other morning, but this morning after we finish she grabs my arm.

"Peeta, are you going home to bake?" I actually hadn't thought that far ahead but it would be good to get back into my routine. So I nod. "Can I…" she stops, her eyes wide and fearful. I think maybe she doesn't want to be alone but it too shy to ask if I'll stay with her. Selfishly, I don't want to be alone either.

"Would you like to come and help me?" I ask in a rush, "I haven't made much for the workers in the past few days and I could use some help to get back on track." The light that floods her silver eyes tells me that I've guessed correctly. She nods smartly, and after we clean up our breakfast dishes she follows me across the green to my house.

For a while she watches me quietly as I get lost in the measuring and mixing of preparing dough, but she rather quickly sees the patterns of my recipes and begins to anticipate what I'll need next, handing me ingredients and utensils, washing up bowls and spoons as we go. I don't notice, at first, how in sync we are. It's only when the dough is rising and the oven heating up that I realize all of the dishes have been washed and tucked away already. I recognize what an incredibly good team we make. Not that I should be surprised. We've always been a good team. I smile at her in gratitude and, frankly, adoration. She blushes, but her eyes don't flit away, not this time.

"Peeta, I… I was wondering if… maybe… I mean, I need to, uhm." I'm learning that she generally only stumbles like this when she's asking for help or otherwise making herself vulnerable, so I smile patiently and wait for her to gather her thoughts. She huffs out an exasperated breath before continuing, "I want to call Dr. Aurelius today." My eyebrows shoot up, she's been back in Twelve for four months and has ignored every one of his calls and letters, had completely ignored me the couple of times I'd suggested she speak with him. "Yeah, I know," she says as if reading my mind, "But after the past couple of days…" she trails off leaving her thoughts unsaid but I know what she means even without them.

"Okay," I start, hoping to encourage her but not frighten her out of the idea. "Do you need his number? I have it here…"

"It's not that, exactly. I just, well, I wonder if I could call him from here? If, uhm, if you might stay with me while I dial? So… so that… I don't…" I can imagine Katniss dialing, then losing her resolve and hanging up, she's always been far better at running from her issues than confronting them, and her asking for my help is both a huge step in the right direction and incredibly endearing.

"Of course, anything you need Katniss, I'll always be here for you."

She smiles, looking relieved. "Is now okay? Before I change my mind?"

Which is how I've come to be standing in my study, dialing the phone while Katniss chews her bottom lip and fluctuates between looking determined and terrified. I hand the receiver to her and stand in front of her, in silent encouragement. Once the doctor has picked up the phone and they've exchanged greetings she nods and I slip out of the study. For the first time in days I feel hopeful. We are going to be okay.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm in the jungle arena, calling for Peeta, but it's dark and I can't see him, I can't hear him because there are drums everywhere, pounding so loudly that they fill my ears, shake my head, drive out everything else, the drums keep pounding and pounding and pounding, and I'm running, yelling for Peeta, I can't even hear myself over the drums, I can't find him, I have to find him, _Peeta! PEETA!_ When lightning hits the tree with a massive crash I start screaming.

I bolt upright in bed, my screams still reverberating through the room. Rain, torrential rain, pounds on the window and on the roof, as loud as a drum as I tremble and pant, trying to pull myself out of my nightmare. Eventually I shakily stand and walk to the window. The rain is coming down so hard I can scarcely see Haymitch's house right next door. When an enormous bolt of lightning illuminates the sky I jump back from the window and am flying down the stairs before I can even consider what I'm doing.

I burst out the front door, barefoot, into the cold rain and across the green, the t-shirt and shorts I slept in completely soaked by the time I reach Peeta's house. I pull open his door without knocking and am inside, in his front hall, not knowing why, exactly, but knowing that I need to be here. The house is quiet but for the steady drumming of the rain, and it's so very dark on this moonless night, a faint glow coming from the upstairs hallway the only light. I can feel immediately that something is wrong, years of hunting and running and hiding have heightened my senses. I stand still and listen while the rainwater puddles at my feet. Faint whimpering is coming from the living room. I creep forward as quietly as my dripping clothes and hair allow. Another flash of lightning illuminates him, crouched on the floor in front of the couch. His hands are gripping his hair as he rocks back and forth. "Peeta?" I whisper, moving slowly closer. In the dim I see him stiffen, the tendons in his neck strung tight, and momentarily I'm afraid. Will he lash out at me? Will he try to hurt me again? I contemplate running for Haymitch, but then I hear Peeta whimper and I know he's frightened, not enraged. Cautiously I slide closer, until I'm standing right in front of him, our toes almost touching. In the dim I can see that his face is red and blotchy, his eyes screwed tightly shut. There's a thin ribbon of blood running from the corner of his mouth, where he's probably bitten through his lip. His every muscle is taut and his whole body is shaking. I crouch down in front of him and say his name softly again. His eyes fly open and his body jerks backwards into the couch, as if he's cowering away from me. My heart breaks for him, and again I have to force myself not to flee, his pain, his suffering is palpable, his fear written all over his face. I kneel in front of him, looking into the black pools that have swallowed up his summer blue irises completely. I reach for his hand but he pulls away, shaking, his teeth grinding audibly.

"Peeta," I say calmly, but firmly, taking his face gently in my hands. His hands fly up defensively, gripping my wrists hard, the joints popping in protest. I cry out a little, but then start talking quickly and as calmly as I can. "It's not real Peeta, it's not real. You're safe, you're at home in District 12 and it's raining, but you're safe. Whatever else you're seeing isn't real Peeta. Come back to me Peeta." He trembles and pants, but his eyes stay locked with mine and I can see him fighting the demons in his mind. I keep repeating 'not real' over and over as his pupils begin to shrink and his breathing slows. His hands relax and then drop. I lean in and slowly, gently kiss his forehead. His eyes close, and tears spill down his cheeks. I wipe them away carefully with my thumbs before pulling his head against my chest and cradling him in my arms. His hands tentatively come up to my back, and then he's wrapping his arms tightly around me, clinging as if for dear life. I kiss his hair over and over, murmuring words of comfort as we rock together and we both cry.

We stay that way for a long time, but once he seems to have calmed I carefully help him lie on the couch. When I try to pull away his arms tighten around me, and in a voice raspy with tears and exhaustion he implores, "Stay with me Katniss, please."

"Okay," I whisper, and climb onto the couch beside him. He shuffles slightly so that his head rests on my chest, tucked under my chin. His arms hold me almost painfully tightly to him as he clings. I peek down at his face, his eyes are closed but his brow is still pinched and his cheeks are wet from his tears. He seems so lost and sad, my heart clenches and I'm overwhelmed by a need to take his pain away. Peeta, strong, brave Peeta, reduced to a terrified little boy, this is my fault, Snow did this to him because of me. I push away my desire to flee and wallow in my guilt. He needs me now. In a voice thick with tears and self-loathing I begin to quietly sing a lullaby I remember my father singing to Prim years ago:

_"Come stop your crying  
><em>_It will be all right  
><em>_Just take my hand  
><em>_Hold it tight  
><em>_I will protect you  
><em>_From all around you  
><em>_I will be here  
><em>_Don't you cry_

_"For one so small,  
><em>_You seem so strong  
><em>_My arms will hold you,  
><em>_Keep you safe and warm  
><em>_This bond between us  
><em>_Can't be broken  
><em>_I will be here  
><em>_Don't you cry"_

His arms loosen and his breathing evens out as he slips into sleep. I lay beside him for a long time, watching him sleep, his handsome face relaxed in repose. Peeta is so steady, so rock solid and good and generous that it's easy to forget the hell he's been though in his young life. He, like me, has survived two Hunger Games, a war, the destruction of his home, the loss of his entire family, and beyond that he's also been abused, tortured, and had his identity destroyed. But Peeta never complains. The work he's done, and continues to do, to overcome the hijacking, to overcome the conditioning to kill me, the magnitude of his will is almost beyond comprehension. I'm filled with awe for this boy, this _man_, who projects such gentleness but is the strongest person I've ever known.

When I hear the storm start to abate I gently slip out of Peeta's embrace, pulling down a blanket from the back of the couch to cover him, then I kneel on the floor beside him. He's still sleeping, but his bottom lip trembles a little. I wonder if he's dreaming about me hurting him, doing the terrible things that the Capitol poisoned his mind with. I brush his hair tenderly back from his forehead and he whimpers, I swear I can feel my heart breaking. Peeta deserves so much better than this. I lean forward and kiss him, just lightly, on his soft, full lips. "I'm so sorry Peeta," I whimper before I leave, running back across the green to my house. I slam my door behind me and rush up the stairs, throwing myself into bed still wet and muddy from my outdoor run. I want to cry, but I feel too hollow inside, so I do nothing but lay there and let the darkness overtake me.

I'm drifting between sleep and wakefulness when Greasy Sae finds me. "Up now child, it's time for breakfast," she says, leaning over me with a smile on her wrinkled face but concern in her deep grey eyes. I pull the pillow over my head.

"No."

She chuckles, "You're not doin' this again girl. Get up now." She pulls the pillow away and helps me sit up. Her brow furrows as she takes in my appearance, the mud all over the bedsheets, my matted hair, but she asks no questions, makes no comments. Her gaze is firm, but kind, loving, maternal, and guilt eats away at my insides. When I chew on my bottom lip she knows she's convinced me. She smiles, and rising says "Why don't you clean yourself up while I make you some nice hot grain," then she's gone. I contemplate locking the bedroom door and hiding under the covers, but instead I rise and shower.

When I drag myself downstairs in a fluffy robe Sae is already gone, but I'm surprised to find Peeta waiting in the kitchen, it's so much later than usual, I figured he'd have left by now. Or maybe I just hoped. I steel myself and walk to the table to say good morning, but when I look at his face and see his swollen lip, the dark circles under his eyes, my resolve cracks. I turn quickly so that he doesn't see the tears threatening, and busy myself making tea. He's completely silent this morning, making no attempt at small talk. The room feels tense, thick with things unsaid. I finish making tea, and return to the table. He's looking at his bowl, his meal untouched, but when I place the tea pot in the middle of the table he gasps and reaches out, grabbing my hand. The sleeve of my robe has shifted and my wrist is on display, faint red and purple bruising coming in, the shape unmistakably left by his fingers. "Katniss…"

"It's fine Peeta, I, I didn't even know they were there." I try to pull my hand away but he holds firm, turning it gently to look all around the wrist.

"Let me see the other one." His voice is so soft, so full of pain. What choice do I have but to comply? The other wrist looks the same. He runs his thumbs gently over the marks, his face contorted in pain. "I did this." It's not a question, not really. I shrug. "I… I thought it was a dream." He whispers, shaking his head slowly. "I'm so sorry Katniss." He's choking back a sob now, and he drops my hands, rising from his seat as he does. "I have to go."

"No, Peeta, wait, it wasn't your fault," I cry out, but he's gone before I finish, out the kitchen door. I know I should chase after him, but I'm rooted to the spot, I have no idea what to say. It's not his fault, I need to tell him that, over and over, but I can't move. I'm worthless. Instead I climb the stairs and crawl back into bed, waiting for the darkness to overtake me again.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**I'm not one for author's notes but I wanted to give credit for the song, which is '_You'll be in my Heart' _by Phil Collins from the soundtrack of the Disney animated feature _'Tarzan', _and which inspired the title of this fiction (it's also quoted in Chapter 1). This isn't a songfic by ANY stretch, just taking some lyrical inspiration from an underrated song :) I'd like to think that lullabies in a future dystopia with hovercrafts but no airplanes could be Disney songs and old folk tunes could have been written by the Beatles. Why not?**

**Also - I'm writing this without a beta, so if the timeline is at any time confusing please let me know. I don't want to spell things out too much and insult the readers;' intelligence, but I'd like it to be understandable of course :)**


	11. Chapter 11

It was a mistake to come back to Twelve, I was a fool to think I could stay, could build a life with her, I'm nothing but a danger to her, a mutt, a loose cannon that could blow up at any moment and destroy her completely. I pace back and forth in my living room, pulling at my hair, willing myself to calm down but failing. I'm enraged with myself, I hurt Katniss, her wrists are battered and bruised, I didn't even ask her if I'd hurt her elsewhere, oh God, did I do anything else to her?

I knew when I woke up on my couch this morning wrapped in a blanket that something was off. The puddle of water inside my front door that I couldn't explain, the feeling that something was missing, the vague, shadowy memories. I tried while I baked this morning to reconstruct what had happened, but I couldn't. I knew that it must have been an episode, and probably a bad one. It's pretty typical for me to not be able to remember afterwards much of what happened while I was locked in my head that way. But I knew that someone had been with me. Realistically, that could only have been Katniss; Haymitch and Sae don't come to my house in the middle of the night. But I just couldn't remember.

I went over to her house for breakfast anyway, despite my unease. When she didn't come down until much later than usual, until after Sae left in fact, I should have guessed that something had happened. She couldn't even meet my eyes. And when she reached across the table, and I saw my handprints on her arms… what have I done?

I throw myself onto the couch and focus on breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. _'Calm down Peeta_' I think desperately, I can't risk pushing myself into another episode, I have to calm down. What happened last night? _Think Peeta think_! I remember the storm, the thunder rumbling, I couldn't sleep, I came downstairs to warm some milk, then…? What happened then? There was lightning, blinding light, and shiny images, the jungle, the lightning tree, Katniss blowing up the arena, trying to kill us all… I felt like I was slipping, then… nothing. Nothing except… singing? Katniss singing. A lullaby? Was she singing me a lullaby? Real or not real? Real... I'm pretty sure that's real. Was that before or after I hurt her? It must have been after. She stayed with me and sang to me after I hurt her? This doesn't make me feel better at all, in fact I feel so much worse.

Yet when I close my eyes I can feel her holding me, we were laying right here on the couch and she was holding me, singing to me. I can remember that now and it hurts so badly, I want so much to feel her arms around me again, right now, to comfort me and tell me it was all a mistake, that I didn't hurt her after all.

But I did. I did hurt her, and she's not going to comfort me, she needs to stay far away from me.

I climb off the couch and head for my study. With shaking hands I dial Dr. Aurelius, it's not my therapy day but he's always there to take my calls if I need him.

* * *

><p>When she pushes open the door to my bedroom I don't look at her. I've been sitting by the window that overlooks her house all evening, painting, so I saw her striding across the green in the moonlight. I knew where she was heading, and while in my heart I want nothing more than to run to her, to hold her and to never let her go, I know that I need to stay away from her, she's not safe with me. So I stay put and instead I continue working, mixing reds to make realistic blood spatters. "You shouldn't be here," I manage to choke out, still not looking her way.<p>

"Why not?" I jump when she speaks, she's moved, silently, and is standing just behind where I perch on my stool, looking over my shoulder. My heart starts pounding; from being startled, or from her proximity, I'm not sure. Her breath catches as she takes in the painting I'm working on, which is of my cell in the Capitol dungeons; filthy and bloody and bathed in the acid green light that I remember illuminating everything down there. She leans even closer, her face right next to mine. I close my eyes tightly, her closeness is almost overwhelming. "Oh Peeta," she murmurs, and lays a gentle hand on my arm. I flinch, unintentionally, and she pulls it back.

My eyes remain shut as I listen to the blood rushing in my ears, to my own laboured breaths as they gradually slow. It's so quiet for so long that I chance opening my eyes, expecting that she'll have slipped away as silently as she came, but she hasn't, she's perched on the edge of my bed, watching me, her silver eyes glowing in the moonlight. "Hi," she says softly.

"Why are you here?" My voice sounds cold and I hate myself even more. She's unperturbed.

"Because you're here." She says it so matter-of-factly that I have to fight the urge to smile. Katniss doesn't do prose or flowery words, she's always straightforward when she manages to actually say what she's thinking, which admittedly isn't often. "You didn't come for dinner," she murmurs softly.

"You shouldn't be here," I say again. "It's not safe. You're not safe here."

"I've never been safer anywhere else than I am with you Peeta." Again there's no hint of melodrama, she's simply stating things as she sees them. It pulls at my heart.

"I hurt you," I start but she cuts me off.

"That wasn't you." Her tone is firm. I look at her, intending to begin all of the arguments about why she should stay away from me that I've been playing in my head since I came home this morning, but her silver eyes meet mine and I feel like I'm drowning in them. "Come here," she says, holding out her hands. I try to resist, but when she softly adds "please," my resolve crumbles, it always does around her. I move over to the bed, sitting beside her but not touching her, my eyes downcast. She turns to face me, taking my hand in hers.

"Peeta," her voice is so soft, barely above a whisper. "If you were going to hurt me, you would have, you're much bigger and stronger than I am, but you didn't." I make a noise of protest but she cuts me off, "No, these," she flexes her wrists slightly, "These are nothing, I bruise myself worse than this every day just climbing trees. You had a flashback, I can't imagine how terrible and frightening it was for you, but you fought it Peeta, you fought it so hard, you kept me safe and you came back to me." Her hands squeeze mine. "I'm not going to stay away from you Peeta. We're a team, and I want to help you, the way you help me. If you'll let me?"

"Katniss, I'm afraid I'll really hurt you."

"I'm not." I look back into her eyes and they're clear and earnest. "I'm not afraid of you Peeta. I've seen you fight off the flashbacks. I know you'll never hurt me." I shake my head sadly.

"I don't… I can't…" I sigh loudly, "Katniss, it's too much of a risk. What if I can't control it next time?"

"What if there's never a next time Peeta?" She's just not backing down. "If our situations were reversed, if Snow had hijacked me instead of you, you'd be with me, every step of the way, helping, I know you would. Like I should have been all along. I wasn't there for you Peeta, when you needed me, and I'm not going to make that mistake again." Her hand reaches up and ghosts along my eyebrow, now regrown after being singed off in the explosions that ended the war. She smiles softly to herself. "Your eyebrows have grown back," she says quietly. Her smile fades and her expression becomes wistful. "Peeta, I'm not good with words, not like you." I want to protest that she's doing just fine but I say nothing, letting her gather her thoughts to continue. "I… I did so many things wrong, so many things that hurt you. But you came back. And I feel like I'm being given another chance. To do better this time."

I'm breathless at her confession. I don't really know what she wants from me, or wants for us, but this little slice of her feels like a precious gift. And even though I'm desperately in love with her, have loved her most of my life, this small bit of trust and intimacy she's offering is enough. I nod at her, and she wraps her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling deeply and fighting back the tears that burn my throat. When she pulls away she scoots across the bed and flips down the covers. Following her lead I climb into bed and she presses her back snugly against my chest, pulling my arms around her and entwining her fingers with mine. I drift to sleep with the thought that maybe – just maybe – we could make something of this, given enough time and patience. It's a happy thought.


End file.
